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.
Love.
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

A young writer
sat in my regular chair
inside the bookstore cafe.
He banged at the keys of his typer,
angry and without mercy.
Once he drained his coffee cup
the writer kept ******* at the rim
for a few remaining drops.
After staring blankly at the wall
for several minutes, the writer packed up
his supplies into a ratty backpack,
and walked out of the joint.
Finally, I figured, my chair had enough
of the games. It felt my presence
nearby and thus decided
we had sins to paint.

-Ron Gavalik

the fact that i have only encountered her once
and now she's filling my entire repertoire
makes me seem a bit insane

it wasn't love at first sight , that couldn't be
i don't even know her name

but the way she carried herself so softly
the way we talked, yet short ,
gave me reason to believe that i must find her again
and i must tell her that our small encounter
yet month's ago
won't leave my ******* head

The wooden doors swing open, creaking as they do.
Books litter the walls, tables, and chairs.
Bestsellers filled with politics, celebrities, and dieting.
The "Classics" eisle is all but abandoned.
Shakespeare, Steinbeck, The Bronte Sisters, and more.
Books filled with elegant phrases, heartbreaking last words, and timeless prose.
I run my fingers along their spines, walking past the gravestones.
Reaching the music section, I smile and wander forward.
So many memories to be found.
Mozart, Beck, Chopin, Hendrix, the list goes on.
So many artists here, preserved through a dead medium.
CD's no longer hold a special place in the world, along with the books housed nearby.
As I walk to the entrance, now an exit, I see rows of newspapers.
Yet another reminder of times gone by.
Staring at the building, about to enter my car, I realize something.
This place is a graveyard for old things.
While the world has moved on to Kindles, iPads, and mp3s, this place has not.
That's why I'll come here until the day it to, is buried.

People accumulate items of the past
Jewelry, books, antiquities all that clutter
They give it up for little to nothing
“Why is it of no value to them?”

The purveyors of
Pawn shops, book stores, consignment shops
Are puzzled
“What are these items, and why are they given up”
Although it is their job to figure out where the volumes are from and what they are about.

These volumes lay on shelves sometimes sold
Sometimes collecting dust for years at a time
The customers past by without a glance at these relics
When one wanders into a place without a purchase in mind they are greeted by those who are there to assist
“What is it you have for first editions? Got any signed copies?

The keep of the till is taken off by these questions
Although he slowly becomes

invested in conversation
“Oh have you heard of this one we just received”

After developing a repertoire of with the young bearded man I ask him
“What is your favorite or uh oldest piece”

As the conversation moved onward a frail book was handed to me
“How old do you think this is?”

I turned the spine to read 1543
Thumbing through the pages I wondered what it is about, and where has it been
The keeper nor I knew nothing of this Ancient tome
This is the sad truth of many tales
They get lost along the way.

I am the bookshelf, and she is the books.
So many interesting stories inside of her.
I watch you every single day, scoop up a new book,
and leave my shelves more empty than before.

As the books leave my shelves, I imagine all the places you take them.
Coffee shops, with comfy lounge chairs and the constant reassurance from the espresso beans.
Parks, with a nice breeze and picnic to compliment the sweet words that pour into your mind.
Home, where you gush about how wonderful your newest story is, and bring her safely to the solitude of your bedroom.

But I am the bookshelf, and I will provide a sturdy environment,
I am strong and I've held myself together for so long.
I listen, I watch, and I wait for you every single day,
and will continue to do so until my shelves can't bear it anymore.

Have you ever
just looked at
people in a
bookstore?
Not judging
them, just
looking,
and seeing
all the different
people buying
different books.
You don't have
to look a certain
way to read or
purchase a book.
You don't have
to look a certain
way in order to read
a certain genre,
just look like
you.

deliberated on a long black
to fit in with your latte
but i guess i can't change
washed down my words
with steaming earl grey
and later at the quaint bookshop
i filled up my head
with other writers, pretended to
admire the whimsical words
but actually i was more interested
in the resident cat
it sat there, flicking its tail
disdainful of every new customer
that walked through the door