If there isn't a name for the feeling
that ripples through your body when you walk through libraries, then there should be. (And it's not Plantar Fasciitus.) Because every time I find myself walking through these spaces it would seem that my words hang suspended like string of lights, but my hearts beats as furiously as it did when our timelines accidentally criss-crossed for the first time. And the second. And the third. And I don't know whether the blame is with the books or with my breath when I grow light-headed and distanced, turning the pages of stories I will never read and reminded that I can not read it all, and I can not know it all, I'm not even smart at all. And it was outside of a library where we sipped beer under the night sky and you sheepishly admitted that you were always the slowest reader in your class but you could handle Foucault just fine. And I couldn't think of a reply so the only thing to do was just sigh when all I really wanted to do was just kiss you. And it was in a library where I would feel most at home - each whisper amplified, reverberating through the knots in my spine and I could kill time with characters so twisted and insane that even the most mundane plot could consume my thoughts for just a brief moment, and I could forget about the time spent outside of libraries, sipping beer under the night sky, where I do everything wrong and you'd do everything right. Sometimes, I'm transported back to the muffled romantics of those old cities and hotel rooms where we'd confess thoughts in rolling black-outs by candle, and compare faults and flaws until we only saw each other as bits and pieces of stories haphazardly thrown together by time. But books seem to get better with time, and I'd rather have the character of dog-eared pages with your criticisms scrawled into my margins than be stuck on the top shelf and never have been opened at all.
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November 2019
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