Poem About A Book Novels & Stories

Part of me wants to flee this exchange, the other feels strangely drawn to his presence. — Does she have a favorite genre? Poetry? Old novels? He frowns slightly. — She loved poetry, once… before the illness stole a bit of herself from her. But I think she would appreciate a book that reminds her of her youth. Something that makes her feel like she still exists. These words strike me unexpectedly. I understand this pain, this need to cling to what remains. — I might have what you need… follow me. I lead him to the back shelves, where the books no one comes looking for anymore lie dormant. I pull out a bound collection of Ronsard, with a worn leather cover, gilt-edged pages.

## Author's Note Hello everyone, I am incredibly grateful that you have taken the time to delve into my book “Caged by Him.” Your time and attention are invaluable, and I want to express my heartfelt thanks for allowing my story to be a part of your day. Writing this book has been a journey filled with passion, creativity, and a few challenges along the way, and I’m thrilled to share it with you.

At ten she put it down. She picked up the Sicilian poet from the corner of the table where it had been since Tuesday. Page fifty-six. The poet writing about a harbor. About standing at the edge of it and understanding that everything that left carrying something came back carrying something else. That the difference was not loss but accumulation. That was what harbors were for. She read the page twice. She put the book down and looked at the kitchen. At the two cups and the quarterly report and the foundation files and everything assembled on this table that was the ordinary work of a life being lived honestly.

"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.

* The fantasy merged with the comments, one reader painting a scene of Jax returning, finding her like this, phone in one hand, fingers buried in the other, then joining, making her squirt across the keyboard. Her orgasm hit sudden and fierce, back bowing off the bed, a strangled cry escaping as her pussy spasmed, fresh wetness soaking the sheets. She rode it out, reading the flood of shared depravity, each one a spark to her sated but insatiable fire. Panting, Zelda dropped the phone, a wicked smile curving her lips. The tease worked readers hooked, fantasies unleashed in the comments below. Jax had left her marked, but this? This was her claiming the narrative. Drop yours now. What's your

The warmth from the fire didn't really ease the uneasy feeling growing inside me. Taking a deep breath, I opened the book. Each page turn felt like stepping back into a past I wanted to forget. The flames continued to dance, casting a flickering light that seemed to play along with the emotions swirling within me. I turned another page, the words becoming guides through a landscape of recovery I wasn't sure I was ready to navigate. Memories, like shadows, crept in as the fire crackled. Each sentence seemed to awaken echoes of my own experiences. It was as if the library held its breath, waiting for me to absorb the weight of those stories and somehow find my own path within them.

I had never had anyone write a poem about me, let alone a book full of poetry. "Maybe when I have something important to tell you I shouldn't write a poetry book about it". He said and I nodded, against his chest my hands going underneath my chin as I scooted myself up his chest, our lips perfectly aligned. I hoped every important thing from now would be told person to person, our eyes interlocked, noticing each other's mood, noticing their stance. I hoped every important thing from now would not be in. A book that I had to search for something unknown that I didn't know I needed. "I loved your book... I'll keep it forever". I hummed softly and he smiled at my gesture, his hands creeping up

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.

“Something real. Not a memory of a party or a name of a person we both hate. Tell me something you see right now.” I looked around the room. I saw the way the firelight danced on the gold leaf of the book spines. I saw the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, silent stars. I saw the way the shadows made him look younger, softer. “I see the fire,” I said, my voice low and melodic. “It’s dying down to embers, a soft, glowing orange. It looks like the heart of a mountain. And the books… they look like a city of paper, all standing at attention, waiting for someone to listen to them. And I see a man who is far more than the darkness he’s been handed.”

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