You sit politely on the shelf,
tempting, teasing.
You haven't changed in the years.
Physically, at least. But I know
you've grown bitter, behind that
facade.
One day, I think, I'll take you down.
Finish you in a day, come back in a year.
I remember where we met. That
shop, the covered market.
Knew you were the one. The promise
of romance, a cunning plan...
I returned home giddy, keen to begin.
But a new job forced a delay; then a girlfriend, depression, apathy.
I took you down once. Made a start but never finished.
So I put you back, guilty of that literary crime.
So many books, so little time.