summers in the book store were filled with hot air and the smell of musty pages.
a fan propelled the hot air at me
in an attempt to ward off the perspiration on my forehead.
the owner was always gone
but the books were better company than he ever was.
the bookstore remained vacant
until autumn gripped the city by it's neck with chilly hands.
that's when everyone was in the mood for a good book.
a little escape from the impending death of the pleasant season.
warm tea and literature on the minds of us all.
so i sat behind the counter
with one finger tracing each printed word of a book as my brain picked up each letter
with a sweating glass of raspberry lemonade right by my side.
but then.
the jingle of the door echoed across the room
as a presence demanded the attention of us all
me and the books.
at first he pretended to browse the shelves.
his fingers grazed the spines of books and i wished i was the book he was looking so intently at.
then he gave up.
he approached me
stealing a mint from the full mason jar at the front of the counter.
he popped it into his mouth
his eyes alight with humor
and the color green that makes trees envious in the winter.
i never caught your name and it has been killing me
he said.
his eyes gripped me and compelled me to speak.
i said my name
listening as the word fluttered away in the air stream from the rickety fan.
he caught the letters and put them back together
when he repeated my name.
his tongue was soft against each syllable
caressing the letters as though they were holy.
my name on his lips sounded like
the music emitted from a harp.
YOU ARE READING
some words about love
Poetrychaos erupts in my mind flowing down to my soul so that a fire burns within me with him as the source. how do i keep the flames at bay? how do I put them out? I write. I write so my words become the spray of a hose washing over me over you over lov...
