Novelas y relatos de Book Of Poems

***Author's Note: This book will not make sense if you do not read the two before this first. So, please read: Book one: P.S. You're My Mate Book two: She's My Mate Before reading this book. Thank you and enjoy!! _________________________________________________ QUADE Poetry. Tattoos. Piercings. Sex.

"Yes. There are parts missing." "True. Recently, I found a book that might help us with that matter." "Let's find it." "A red covered book with golden inlays." "I found it." "You have a sharp eye. All the books in this section are the same." "Let's start. There is a free table." Surrounded by rays of candles, the two friends started reading the dusty, old tome. The first one started:

His smile could light up the entire library. He settles into the leather wingback, my favourite chair, the one I curl up in when I want to feel held, and opens his book. I catch a glimpse of the cover. Pablo Neruda. Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. “Why are you reading that?” He looks up at me. “What?” I clear my throat. What the fuck are you doing Vanessa? I adjust the collar of my shirt. “Neruda. Why are you reading it?”

"There's one in Capitol Hill open until eleven. We could just browse. No agenda." "Okay. Pick me up in twenty." The bookstore is quiet. Soft lighting. The smell of coffee and paper. We split up. An unspoken agreement to explore separately. I find him thirty minutes later in the poetry section, reading with complete focus. "Find anything?" I ask. He shows me a collection by Mary Oliver. "I didn't know I liked poetry. But this is—it's beautiful." "Buy it." "I will." We leave with five books between us. None of them self-help or business strategy. Just novels and poetry and a cookbook.

Pulled the book out. It was a slim volume of poems. Contemporary, literary, the sort of thing that wins prizes and sits unread on most people's shelves. But this copy had been read. The spine was cracked at multiple points, and when I opened it, the pencil marks were everywhere — single words underlined, question marks in the margins, occasionally a longer note in handwriting that was smaller and more controlled than I expected. Sharp. Precise. I sat in the worn reading chair and opened to a marked page and read.

But here, under the soft hum of old lights and surrounded by paper and ink, it eased. She moved toward the back room, flipping the CLOSED sign even though the door was unlocked. Technically, they didn’t open until ten. Technically, she didn’t care. Back among the shelves, she let her fingertips drift over cracked spines and dog - eared corners. Each book whispered differently. Some loud, some quiet. Some didn’t whisper at all. But one — near the middle, in the poetry section no one ever touched — felt warm. Warmer than it should’ve.

Through the window, he could vaguely see a young man driving. His pride stopped him from chasing after her for an explanation, but the question haunted him all the way home. "Is it because I have nothing right now?" Back home, he pulled a poetry collection from the shelf. Inside was a bookmark made from a neatly pressed sycamore leaf. Written on it in black ink was: [O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being.] He tucked the bookmark into his collection of European poetry, right on the page of John Keats' On First Looking into Chapman's Homer.

The cover was adorned with intricate, silver runes that shimmered in the light, and the pages were filled with stories, poems, and songs that Kie had collected from our adventures together. The book was titled "Whispers of the Stars," and it was a testament to the special bond between us. As I opened the book, the pages revealed memories, laughter, and tears we had shared, all woven into a tapestry of words that spoke directly to my heart. "Thank you, love, I love it!" I said kissing him too.

I only felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Dylan's tears fell. Suddenly, he looked up and lunged at me, grabbing my neck. "Fiona, it's you! You poisoned my parents! You killed them!" His grip was firm. Soon, everything went black before my eyes. Fear gripped my heart as my hands clenched tightly. Bernice rushed over, desperately trying to pull his hands away. "Dylan, stop! This has nothing to do with Fiona. In fact, she's been running around trying to help today. Don't be ungrateful!"