Book

An old hard leather cover barely visible

Between two solid and impressive

Wooden columns lying almost forgotten

On a dusty thick shelf at high level

Calls to me in a way I couldn’t miss.

Touching it causes a small cloud of dust

To softly lift and softer still to fell

On its resting place from so long ago.

Inside I find yellow aged pages

With greyish round corners,

And on the very first page, in bold letters,

I find only two words: “To you”

Imprinted on the rough surface of the paper.

 

The Book Shop is antique, but appealing,

It doesn’t seem to belong there; it is out of time,

Yet, in sync with my inner time, talking to me.

It draws me in, and the doors part

As if I activate a hidden sensor,

As if it is alive and knows I am coming…

It is warm inside, cosy, welcoming.

The girl at the counter is young

But she seems to be more a part of the Shop

Than the walls themselves,

She raises her eyes from the paper in her hands

And for a split second, a half heart beat,

I am taken elsewhere and then back again.

Her eyes are like twin lighthouses side by side

In the rocky shores of a distant island in time.

Suddenly an unseen cat rubs at my legs

Going around me, and then, faster than it appeared

Vanishes under a bench, lost…

 

The silence of t he room is almost palpable,

But one that tenderly caresses the skin,

And goes beyond, a little deeper still…

No words are exchanged, or needed.

There’s a connection in the way our eyes meet,

As if the contact is a ripple in the stillness

Of the air around that softly bathes our souls

In waves filed with emotion and feeling.

To part from her eyes is forceful, unnatural…

Yet it comes easy as I realize she’s coming

Not like a shadow, but a presence,

Not exactly guiding, nor following, but there.

Row after row I’m mesmerized by the books,

Every now and then I pick one up,

It smells of leather, old paper, age…

Flip a page, or two, feeling the texture

In the tip of my fingers, reading with the touch

More than what is written.