I am humbled in the presence of books.
Walking down aisles of literature,
of every ligament in my body,
blood moving through veins.
Hand lifts delicately,
leaning on air –
I dare not touch a word without proper reverence,
with man whispering at heart,
the kind whose thoughts I sipped slowly,
like wine I didn’t want to leave my cup –
only these books can’t hurt me.
These books can’t pretend to be truth when they lie.
Their words aren’t tailored to get me to read by candlelight in my bed
unless by my own choice.
These books fall asleep on my chest
and are still there when I wake up in the morning.
I am stunned by the sensation when my surroundings
are old thoughts on pages
calling out to me to do with them as I please –
now in my hands.
I fear becoming what I fear –
on worn, splintered shelf,
I will not leave you –