A Book Of Poetry Novels & Stories

Neither of us mentioned it. “I didn’t realize you read poetry,” I said, sliding a thin book into place. “Occasionally,” he admitted. “Usually when I can’t sleep. There’s something… grounding about it.” “I get that,” I said, my fingers lingering on the spine of a weathered collection. “It’s like trying to make sense of feelings you can’t name.” He looked at me then, long enough that I felt my pulse shift. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Exactly like that.”

Arian's pov The atmosphere was bubbling with excitement as the reading festival began in the grand hall. Bright decorations adorned the walls and pillars, infusing the space with an air of excitement and creativity. Shelves behind the main hall overflowed with books of every genre: fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and more. The colors and titles of the novels seemed to dance on the shelves, inviting attendees to explore their stories. New generation authors and readers mingled, their faces lit up with enthusiasm as they discussed their favorite books and writers. I should have been floating with pride but my stomach was knotted, my palms damp with sweat.

Every moment is this. Without moment. This. The light that is. The love that is. The being that is. The this that is. Only this. The book never opened. Because there was no cover. The book never closed. Because there was no ending. The book was the opening. The book was the reading. The book was the read. All one. Without one. This. The final chapter is not final. There was no first. There was no sequence. Only this. Appearing as sequence.

"Show me. Show me who you are when you're not being perfect. When you're not trying to prove anything. Just you." He's quiet for a long moment. Then he pulls away. Goes back to the chair. Picks up the book again. "Sit," he says. I sit. He opens the book. Finds a page. Starts reading. His voice changes. Softens. Like the words mean something. Like they're important. It's poetry. Old. Beautiful. About wolves and moonlight and bonds that transcend death. I close my eyes. Let his voice wash over me. Let myself just feel.

The fireplace crackled softly, casting amber light across the lakehouse living room. Shadows danced across the walls as the wind outside whispered through the trees. Inside, time felt suspended. Ava sat cross-legged on the thick rug, the warmth of the fire brushing her bare arms. She was reading from a dog eared poetry collection she’d found tucked between old novels on a high shelf. The spine was cracked. The pages smelled like memories. The poems weren’t curated or famous just raw, honest words scrawled by someone who must’ve loved too deeply.

Isla The black envelope arrived on my doorstep at midnight, sealed with crimson wax imprinted by a symbol I did not recognize, a coiled serpent devouring its own tail. Inside, a single cardstock invitation, embossed in gold. “The Vault awaits. Your presence is required. Refusal is not an option.” No signature, no explanation. Just an address in the shadowed underbelly of the city, a warehouse district where the elite hid their dirtiest secrets.

I copy him, and soon both our hands are slowly turning green. “What kinds of books do you like to read, Anara? Romance novels with damsels in distress?” he jokes, making me laugh. “Yes, I like romance novels too. But I never had many of those on my shelf,” I admit, a hint of bitterness slipping in. “I could only read whatever I could find around.” “Do you have a favorite?” Riven asks eagerly, and I pause for a moment to think. “Yes. A poetry book my mother used to read to me,” I say, my voice warm with nostalgia. “I even memorized one poem from it. It was my favorite.”

For now, she didn't even want to wonder what would happen if aunt Margareth finds out about her feelings. Selene stretched first, then slowly dragged herself off the bed, her eyes immediately fixed on the Book of Magic that was lying down on the desk, the one she had gotten from aunt Meredith yesterday. Selene took it gently in her hands and sat on the edge of the bed, setting the bulky volume on her lap, and flipped through the book several times. Afer the fourth time she stopped at a page that showed a portrait of a man with ebony, half-length hair, in a long black coat... The face itself seemed familiar at once, but when Selene saw his eyes - dark and captivating like two black holes, she

To her dismay, Jane found herself walking down the hall to English with Lucy by her side, still talking, talking, talking. "I didn't know you were such a big reader, Jane," Lucy said, smiling at her. "I guess because your book-report books are always so short. But length isn't what matters in a book. I love a lot of short books, too. Just look at poetry. A poem can be any length. There are millions of wonderful poems that are only a few lines long. Like Emily Dickinson's poems. She can say more in two lines than most people can say in a hundred pages. What part are you up to in A Tale of Two Cities?"

Things forgotten touch me now— & they’re clouding me w/ forgiveness, rethinking the time I was asked the question I knew I would never understand, but that question brings things—slow walks, time & space, Fleetwood Mac glistening living rooms w/ home & midnight specials—wrapped w/ the cellophane intention that such question I wouldn’t forget could somehow become a beautiful title for a first book in poetry.