Those lazy days when
Your soul pleads with you to leave - -
So you leave the house
You get in the car, city bound
And breathe in the books and ink
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with poetry and writers, and the smell of old bookstores, and of the soil after the daybreak rain. I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with saving people with messed up souls, that I allowed you to stop hearing the stories they tell at midnight when they’re lost in unknown towns concealed beyond the gaps in their ribs.
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with songs that could’ve saved your life, that I allowed you to walk past the paintings in a museum, and that I allowed you to stop seeing movies that could’ve reminded you of how it feels to feel again. I’m sorry that I allowed you to stop sparing glances at the myriad of city lights in smoggy cities and the spaces between fading pedestrian lanes — that I allowed you to stray far from mountain-and-sea sunsets, and the outline of a crescent moon, and the beauty of conversations that last ‘til sunrise.
I’m sorry, darling.
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with the things you wanted to stay in love with.
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with the things that kept you alive.
a sweet chime dings
as you walk through the door
you breath in the smell
of cherished tomes
and are drawn in
to a world of possibilities
I love the feeling of vellichor, it is just so enchanting.
Enveloped by damp
Murmur of shoppers sorting
With their fingerprints
Eye’s rhythm on book spines.
i don't love you.
i simply love everything about you
i love the simple aggression of the way you write and speak, your mind which says volumes in almost no words at all.
i love the glint of determination always present into your deep dark eyes, which tell me that the strong woman inside is being trapped, trapped by the hollow cage of a girl she's been burdened with all these years.
i love the wings, the scales which shiver with every step and cast brilliant beams of light off of their sharp red wherever you go.
i love the rhythm which with your poetry echoes in me, making me feel the pain of the man, the woman, the child and the lonely girl who you talk about.
i love your friends
your love for coffee and bookstores and the rain
but i don't love you.
Confused and misguided I found myself in the bookstore,
Looking for myself in the writing of poets,
Where pain and love met, I yearned for more
Found myself in disguise, broken, feeling time fly
Broken and insecure, I found myself in the bookstore.
Reading about my past lovers, was I not strong enough for the storm?
Loved a man who failed to explore,
The woman inside me begging for more
Lost but committed, I found myself in the bookstore.
Reminiscing on our lust, was I a bore?
Picking up a book filled with promises,
Will I ever get what love has in store?
Running towards lust, I ended up broken in the bookstore.
You left me broken but wanting more
Addicted to your soul, I failed to remember..
That I met you at the bookstore
-Henessy J. Beltre
bookstores and libraries bring a great level of tranquility.
(© Henessy J. Beltre 10.10.2018)
With so little time I could not decide.
Shelf after shelf filled with book upon book.
The likes I've dreamed of reading.
Most bookstores have there signs posted.
Opening and closing time.
But this, this was something out of the ordinary.
Not a soul wandering through the isles.
No checkout line.
It was intimate.
Being here alone surrounded by book after book.
Each with a cover beautifully drawn.
Genres of insecurities, dreams, ambitions.
Any spot on the floor felt like home.
Addressing myself in total seclusion.
Mornings spent in thought embraced by the cold air flowing through the vents.
Afternoons spent without a thing to do.
The nights when a pillow was the only comfort, drifting off to sleep.
Slow rather than fast.
I flipped through page after page.
Wandering from isle to isle undecided in which book I wanted to read first.
Eying the shelves one at a time.
Finding the beauty in what makes you, you.
The marked on pages.
The distraught covers.
With so little time I didn't want to spend every second over-thinking.
Analyzing exactly which stood out the most.
When in actuality.
They all are a part of you
My echoing laughter
Catches the walls
Just below the ceiling
When I see it again
In the reiteration of his own hand
That you were right
And the world was wrong
That it was not meant to be as this
A singing song
But a reproach of the sigh
Of another man
How clever of the Frost to hide
On another set of snowy hands
How clever indeed were you also to find
The original meaning of such a man
With props to you
I laugh again
It was to reproach the sigh and to remember the moment. I think you were right (or at least on the right track).