You are my bookshelf.
From tree trunk to my room;
with nightstand and couches for neighbors.
In some catalogue you might
be ordered and tidy, with turquoise
bindings and untouched papers.
But you age with me,
we wither and decay.
If I wanted you to stay flawless
I would need to do the same.
The tomes that burden you
are portals to your heart.
Without them, what would you be?
When I wipe the dust off, I wheeze -
Yet I wouldn't open your books
If I didn't care enough to see.
For with every new novel,
every remarkable misadventure,
Your shelves creak and strain,
but my passion for you grows tender.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
You are my bookshelf.
From tree trunk to my room;
with nightstand and couches for neighbors.
In some catalogue you might
be ordered and tidy, with turquoise
bindings and untouched papers.
But you age with me,
we wither and decay.
If I wanted you to stay flawless
I would need to do the same.
The tomes that burden you
are portals to your heart.
Without them, what would you be?
When I wipe the dust off, I wheeze -
Yet I wouldn't open your books
If I didn't care enough to see.
For with every new novel,
every remarkable misadventure,
Your shelves creak and strain,
but my passion for you grows tender.
