these are the days that must happen to you
There is a room where I would go to sit
When I don’t want to think about it.
The shelves are high
And they make up my walls
I can pretend they are strong
That they won’t ever fall.
The books on my shelves are all my friends
Each one different, with their own little ends.
Some covers are battered
And dog-eared and loved
Huge parts of my room
They push in and shove.
The highest shelves need ladders to reach
Rare books – just for me – one read each.
Crisp leather spines
And pretty in their rows
The hardest of stories
But once read, you know.
In the middle, just in your eye-line,
Books I can loan, but stay mine.
Some read by many eyes
Others touched by few hands
Because not everyone is good with books
And cause damage that was not planned.
I am glad to have this little room,
It is this little space for me.
Where I can sit alone and read my books
And understand what stories can and can’t be.