The Inner Magnetism of a Book
I hold an intimate relationship with books. I feel for the soul and Shen that lies within each piece of paper. The unseen magnet sliding my fingers back and forth to eternal bookshelves. The countless perfect picturesque spines and covers my eyes gladly ignore. Until, the tips of my fingers and depths of my belly feel a pull. The tug of a thousand life times that have already happened to bring me here. To you.
The dusty second hand book that hides behind the other titles. Hidden in the shelves behind the old bookshop door. Poking through the shadows of hardback books on Greek mythology that allow these fingers to glide past with ease. Because these fingers won’t stop until the first touch of your spine sends flutters to my heart. Or the three letter word that my unfocused eyes scan for waiting to feel the flutter. The embossing of your name's letters left to inflate over decades of love and neglect. I can feel the creases that run down your spine from being bent cover to cover. The readers delight in a late night dimlit corner of a room. Being rested in the palm of my hand as my shoulder sinks deeper into the floor.
Did you find your way to me or were you always waiting for that door bell to ring and watch me wander in? How long has it been since we last met? How many sleeves have you tried on? How many pencils have scribbled through your margins? Would you tell me if I asked;
Do you prefer the sun or the moon?
I’ve collected only a few of you across this lifetimer. But maybe only a few will do. I really should stop trying to squeeze that last slim book in your gaps. Do you prefer space or a hug? I can’t tell at this point if it’s addiction or love. I never let you breathe. Cramming you all in. You’re the hardest to let go.
It’s spring time and I think the winter stole some of your source. Some of you just don’t hold the same in my hand. Almost cold to the touch. When did you lose your warmth? Was it somewhere between the sufi obsession or the farmers almanacs?
It takes something special to get this flame to flicker. I guess that's the beauty of each turn I take. Every solar return brings a new kind of bird. I learnt that from you. You remind me of grandpa.
The friends I let go to have one more night with you. I do my little dance in the living room window and pray for the rainy days. Then, skip out into town just as the clouds appear to hide in your bookshop and wait for the pull. I close my eyes and wait for the belly to sing. But not today. No pull. No tug. No force. Still, I buy something to feel again and rip out a page and burn it by the bridge in the name of… that friend.
Where did you all go? I seem to always return to the 70s and before. Where did it all go wrong? How did you lose your smell? I yearn for that smell of a thousand pockets you’ve been stuffed into. I feel for your grainy texture without even thinking. I could still be drawn to you and read you cover to cover, even if I went blind.
Tell me, Lonely traveler, what brought you to me.
Was it the sun or the moon or your mind?
Could it be something far older.
