Poem About A Book Mga Nobela at Kwento

Gazing back towards the book, it felt as if something was pushing me towards it. I got up and walked towards the book. Placing it on my lap I noticed that the cover was filled with complicated detailing. The material felt rough, it felt old but well-taken care of. The colors were a mixture of ash grey, gold, and specks of white, the title was written in crimson red. Taking a bite from my food, I opened the first page of the book. ---------- [Chapter Quote: "Her soul belongs to words and books. Every time she reads, she is home ."]

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.

With a gentle hug, I put the book down and immediately left for work. At 5:30 I was behind the shop waiting for my employers. I began to think about what happened last night. I was contemplating how a small book could increase in size by itself. The book could talk and give instructions for humans to follow. What amazed me more was the fact that fire of blood could rest in a bowl and the book didn’t burn but when I put my hand I was burning that I could even felt the fire even in my intestines.

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.

“I think that is time I leave you. I will see you later, Raina.” I looked around the room that I was now locked in. I looked through every draw, every cabinet, and through a small closet, only stumbling across a small book of poetry. I could only assume that it had been left there by the previous occupant of the room. I had always enjoyed poetry. I sat down on the bed and began reading the book. The poetry was eloquently written and quite meaningful. I could feel the emotions of the writer dripping out of every line. One particular line stood out to me as I read:

Alizeh: 'I know, but I can't control my laugh! Varun: "I can say this also with that other meaning, but I am not like that na!" Alizeh: "I know that you are not like that, I know it really well knows! by the way when is my book coming!" Varun: "Maybe 23!" Alizeh: "Yayy, I will keep it with me always!" Varun: "You can also keep me with you always!" Alizeh: "I know, you can also keep me!"

I managed to get inside swiftly. I let my eyes wander leisurely, scanning the rows of shelves for one that caught my interest. A soft smile graced my lips when I realized the perfect section was standing right before me, waiting like an old friend I hadn’t yet met. With a gentle touch, my fingers glided across the spines of the books, their textured covers whispering promises of stories untold. My gaze danced over the titles, seeking something that resonated, something familiar until one caught my attention. “All About Dreams,” I murmured softly, the words rolling off my tongue as I carefully pulled the book from its place.

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.

I dump my bag on the floor and read through the shelf while pulling books out and mumble as I go. ‘Even a book can be dangerous in the wrong hands.’ ‘Ignite.’ ‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’ ‘You’ll make bad choices. Sometimes you’ll choose the best of bad ones.’ ‘Tuesday is Fucked.’ ‘Everything’s a game. And now it’s your turn.’ I have a stack of about 10 books before I abruptly stop. "Next isle." I say and we walk up and down the library isles. I climb and jump to get books off of shelves and Aidan has to catch me a couple of times when I fell.

I chuckled as the tears continued to fall and the rumble in his chest made me grow comfortable with staying in that position where nothing else mattered. His smile hit me, the blinding light behind it illuminating the lining of the stars in my universe to fall for him. Only intensifying the wanton need I had for him. I knew I should have been upset over blaming myself for thinking I lost his book, but I was glad that this was happening. "Although I loved all his poems . . . there's one that really stood out to me," he said taking the book out of my hands to flip through it. He eventually placed it back into my hands and I'm met with the words THE CHOICE staring back at me.