The library is not familiar to me
but I can walk blindfolded.
I have known better places
yet I can be in peace.

For it is not the books,
it is nothing else.
Other than what I love,
that girl hidden from my looks.

She glides across the aisle
and grabs her little book.
Like a nimble ballerina,
she spins along in style.

I leave each row behind
stacked with those tomes of memories.
A predator would be put to shame,
if she knew what was on my mind.

Close yet careful I would look at her
a surreal dream in reality.
Is she but a fragment of my thought?
I know there is naught an answer.

Eyes which peek and glance
every second an infinite.
And if she ever caught me looking,
the red on her cheeks would dance.

How I would give
how much more I would take,
to tell her of my being;
for the girl in the library, was the only motive.