We're giddy in the bookstore,
our home away from home,
lifting the aging pages to our noses
to inhale the hands which have held and cradled
these delicate spines which bind this world together.
Our world, where I am me,
laughing at your book collection
with unmarred pages and beautiful covers,
until I came along
and discovered your stash of Melville, Steinbeck, and Plath.
Now lines of life run down the spines
and occasional coffee stains spot the corners
(respect for your obsession for pristineness
was the only barrier keeping me from penciling the pages).
But we both would never want the nights to end
where my lips are to your ear,
only the words on the page separating you and me,
the twilight blending into rosy shades of dawn.
In this world where so much is wrong,
we find our niche, where we can be us:
nestled cozy and warm in the leaves of a book,
love written between the lines.
Here, I forget all of the reasons
why we should not be
and cling to the one why we should:
the Book of Love is hard to find
on the shelves of ages and time,
but with you, I have it locked in my heart
and read from it at night
when all the world is asleep
but for you and me.