They are piling, like the dust on an unused radio,
All that shopping, bursting out of shelves fast filling up.

They are turning pale as the years go by;
Mixed with the new ones that disturb the order.

All those markers jutting out and hundreds of titles later;
One would think I would have all of life's questions answered.

These books are all white, yellow and musty;
Some waiting to be read, some waiting to be held up again.

Yet something is missing, the speed of youth in reading them.
As time has taken over, I have become a purposeful and slower reader.

Now I measure my maturity by the duration that one book spends on my bedside;
Before returning to their congested shelf.
This is how I know - I grew up.

As you flip those pages, you know you cannot capture that captivating essence from those books.
You cannot make a scent of the old books, neither can you store the wisdom of age in bottles.
This is how I know - I grew up.

Now I measure my maturity by the duration that one book spends on my bedside;
Before returning to their congested shelf.
This is how I know - I grew up.