The creak of a spine
And scent of a musty page
Intoxicates me

If my life was a book,
What genre would it be?
I don't think there's a genre for lonely,
Not lonely from other people,
But lonely from myself,

But that's not me,
Not constantly,
There are just days the sun shines,
And the rays seem to miss my face,

It wouldn't be a tragedy,
Even though there are days I think it could be,
I don't believe that my life is tragic,
Tragic things just happen sometimes,

I wouldn't call it a comedy,
No matter how much I'd like for it to be,
I can't imagine how easy it would be,
To only have to laugh,

If this is supposed to be a romance,
The author is doing a **** poor job,
I can't think of anything less romantic,
Then the way that boys have treated me,

But I know life's not that simple,
To be pinned down by just one word,
It leaves the good things or the bad things,
One or the other gets left unheard,

Life is complex and stories,
So many things have happened to me,
There are so many things that I've been,
So many things I want to be,

If my life was book,
The genre wouldn't matter to me,
The important question is,
Would it be a book worth reading?

If you want to see happy people
Go to the bookstore

As they flip the first few pages
Observe the cover and the edges

Notice the torn and the teardrops
Rub the coffee spills and the bookmarks

Smell the old cinnamon bread
As this 2nd hand book tells, the living and the dead

And if you see them smile,
And their eyes sparkle like the sea

By that you can tell
And tell, yet begin another story

So if you want to see happy people
Go to the bookstore

They are silently sitting in the corner
But you don't judge a book by its cover

new, unused; you picked me up
from quite a few parched with dust over them
excited you were so was I to be selected after all.

picture of me clicked, lights on and a perfect setup,
you and me only with a cup of chai and not so bright lights.

love thrill and excitement,
the first chapter had it all,
you read it and loved it,
like never before.

with the passing chapters the story slowed down,
so did your reading speed,
started forcing yourself, with tired face and sleepy eyes
struggled just to move forward,a bit more, a page more, a chapter more. maybe you should have Let me go at that moment,
but decided to hold.
never did you forget to take out time for me,
I have seen you crying smiling clinching to your pillow like a kid,
also while reading when that pink blush slid. soon the story paced up again, there were ups Lows and heartbreaks,
and you were sailing through them all,
along with me.

I was about to get over,
we were about to end,
you wanted me to be longer but the plot didn’t allow,
you finished reading,
you competed with me and you freed me,
that was how I wanted it to end.

now I am free I promise to be with you,
through your lows and highs and smiles and cries,
that’s why it’s always said,
it all starts with a good book.

Oh, sweetheart.
You're every star in the sky.
You remind me of a snowdrop encased in dark, cracked resin. Maybe frozen into the ice, then, deep beneath where the sun ever reached. The pride of the leviathan of the deep.
God, you're breathtaking.
Your eyes convey a thousand wishes, hope still glinting deep in there. You cultivate it like a small ember, a glowing shard of coal in the rain. It never goes out, not all the way. You can always blow it back to life.
You absolutely astound me.
Your bravery, your courage, your presence, it envelops me like the rumble of a thunderstorm deep within my chest. Your existence shines so bright it could light a path through Victorian London smog, your machinations a delightful enigma.
I cannot imagine not knowing you now.
Alabaster and deep azure, soot and iridescent verdant. I could get lost in your soul. Gazing into your mind feels like ****** of a secret, absolute ******. You make my blood boil. My veins are blue, bluest blue, thinking about you.
You're every book on the shelf.
You're every smile from a stranger.
You're every star in the sky.
Oh, sweetheart.

I’ve lived in a thousand lives,
seen a thousand faces;
I’ve walked the shoes of fairies,
carried adrift by silk strewn laces.

I’ve kissed a thousand suns,
beguiled a thousand moons;
I’ve danced on the arms of Queens,
crown jewels shimmering in the afternoon.

I’ve seen a thousand worlds,
yet yearn for a thousand more;
for it is these stories that bind my soul
to the living world beneath my door.

wandering through the stacked books
with delicate frames atop a sloped nose
shoulder length locks of leather brown
your physicians fingers on a book spine
honey eyed glances thrown over to me

sweet lips mumble poetic pages to themself
I hear pages rustle and soft sweaters shift
as you close the book and come over to sit
hands clasped on the table we chatter
and hour will fly by enraptured by you