Booktok Poetry Mga Nobela at Kwento

I found two things in fiction and one in the small poetry section near the window that I hadn't expected to want. We met in the middle, near the new releases, and compared finds. He had added two more books to Carol's original recommendation — one history, one biography. I showed him my three. He picked up the poetry collection and read the back, his expression doing the focused thing it did when he was actually reading rather than skimming. "This one's good," I said. "Have you read it?" "I read the review. The poet is from the Bronx — she writes about the city the way it actually feels, not the way people who visit write about it."

Novels, grimoires, Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson. Wait, what? The Emily Dickinson? She hid most of her poems until the day she died, but looking at this book, holding it, it feels like everything she had written is in here. It's a lot, there were still poems of her that I haven't read yet, I never knew about its existence until now. I quickly opened the book and the pages were amazing, you know that scent of old books? This one has it, that one familiar scent of home, of comfortability, of coffee in the early morning while it's raining. I stopped on a particular poem, one I've read over and over again. I'm Nobody! Who are you?

I make my way through the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of books, until I reach the poetry section. I don't know why I'm drawn here. I just am. My body moves like it knows something my brain doesn't. I walk through the poetry section, line by line, shelf by shelf, until I stop. My hand freezes mid-reach. 'Pablo Neruda.' A whole row of his work, lined up neatly, my fingers pause over one book in particular. 'Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.' I pull it off the shelf slowly, like it might bite me. The cover is worn, soft under my fingers, like someone's held this book a lot and loved it.

Rozy urged. "I was in a small bookstore in Florence, tucked away in an alleyway. I couldn't reach a first-edition poetry collection on the top shelf. Suddenly, this tall, shadow-like man reached over me and pulled it down. He didn't even hand it to me at first; he just read a verse aloud." Rozy stopped her work, her mouth slightly agape as she gushed over the narrative. "Oh, stop! Poetry? In a bookstore? He READ TO YOU??My heart can’t take it."

His heartbeat transfers through his chest into my palm, one steady knock after another. I notice the book on his desk. Half-open, a page marked with a folded corner. "What are you reading?" His chest shifts as he reaches for it. "A poem," he says. "Let me read you the part I've been thinking about." He reads it quietly, voice low enough that it doesn't carry past the room. "Put out my eyes: and I shall see you, too, seal up my ears: and I shall hear you still, and without feet I yet can go to you,

“Read the titles as you ride,” he ordered. “Poetry of… oh fuck… Love,” I gasped. “Mystery… Thrillers.” “Make it dirty. What would you do in those stories?” “Fuck the poet,” I panted. “Solve the mystery with my ass.” He groaned, took the books from me, and tossed them aside before wrapping his arms around me and thrusting up hard. “Cum now. On the shelf.” I stroked myself fast, shooting ropes of cum onto the books, white streaks marking their covers as my body convulsed and my hole milked him.

I whisper. This time, the tears don’t feel like weakness. They feel like healing. Like something finally beginning. ************************ Unspoken Desires - Book 3…. Coming Soon

“You’re bright. But excuses aren’t a substitute for effort, you know that, right?” Something about the way he says it—calm, steady, but piercing enough to poke straight through my defenses—makes my cheeks heat up. I look away, focused on the big books instead of him. “Well, I hope you brought snacks because if you expect me to read all this, we’re going to be here for eternity.” He chuckles softly, “You’re not reading them all,” he says simply, handing me a much thinner volume. The Poetics of Resilience. “We’ll start with this.”

I pulled one out at random, a collection of poetry, and began to read. I sat on the couch, surrounded by the silence of the beach house, lost in the words of the poetry book. The verses spoke of love, loss, and longing. I felt a pang in my chest as I read, recognizing the emotions that had been swirling inside me. The poet's words were like a mirror, reflecting my own thoughts and feelings back at me.

I was about to turn away—honestly, I’d already proven my point by existing in here—when something caught my eye. A book. Not just any book. It had a dark velvet cover, stitched along the edges, with delicate silver embossing. Fancy. A little dramatic. Totally Sebastian. I picked it up, flipping it open without a second thought. He should’ve hidden it better if he didn’t want anyone snooping. The first page stopped me cold. A poem. Not the gross, rhyming kind either. It was... good. Too good. The kind that actually made you feel something.