I wander into a corner and sit upon the floor.
The stacks rise up beside me,
As I affectionately touch the brittle spines.
I pick at the leather as it flakes off,
The smell mingles with the air particles,
And it is a scent I adore.
It’s comforting and safe,
Slowing my pulse to a calm.
And if these old pages were a blanket,
I’d wrap them tightly around me,
Falling asleep to love stories and love poems.
They would surround me,
And I would drift into the words,
Like wood out to sea.
The stories would sink into my skin,
As it kindles me,
Like you kindle me,
And I threaten to set the whole thing on fire.
I see you through blinds;
Fragmented pieces that stack up,
But don’t really take shape.
And when you push me away for the countless time,
Insisting that you are broken,
You’re broken, I’m broken,
I wrap myself in a blanket of old words.
Of people who said it so much better than I.
Source:
http://kkellyphotography.wordpress.com/2013/07/31/kindle-me/