Poem About A Book Novels & Stories

“Makes sense.” That surprised me a little. I expected a comment. Or judgment. Or that usual tone he used when he thought something was pointless but didn’t care enough to argue. Instead he just… accepted it. So I leaned into the conversation instead. “This book is actually good,” I said, tapping it lightly. “It’s mostly poetry centered on grief and memory and how people pretend they’re okay when they’re not.” His eyes flicked down to it again. “Sounds depressing.” “It’s not depressing,” I said immediately. “It’s emotional.”

Each flutter of paper carried the weight of centuries-old knowledge, as if the very essence of the curse lingered within the inked imprints. Page after page slipped through her fingers, time standing still in the midst of our shared quest for answers. The rustle of parchment echoed like a whisper in the dimly lit space, punctuating the silence that enveloped us. And then, as if guided by an invisible hand, Lucy's searching eyes found the middle of the book, the coveted chapter that held the potential to unveil the secrets I so desperately sought.

I said, pointing to the nearby shelf. I walked ahead quickly, hoping she’d stop to process what I said — maybe stand there for a second, pretending to browse while secretly thinking about it. But no. She was still beside me, pushing the cart like nothing happened. Seriously, what build did God give you, huh? We reached the poetry section. Sydney’s eyes softened the moment she saw the shelves. She reached for a book titled The Gift of Everything and placed it in the cart like she was laying a newborn down to sleep. I couldn’t help smiling.

5 years ago, I was blessed to open a publishing house as well. E.H. Publishing has had success with multiple top-selling books, and awards. I am grateful for my success, and the benefits packages that accompany it but, were I being honest with myself, I feel empty. It has been several decades since I felt a woman embrace. I have tried, I have tried to move on but, soon all becomes dust in the wind and I have yet to find someone who touches my soul just as my sweet Eliza did. I will never again be able to see her, feel her again.

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?"

I think my slap has reminded her of her place , as she does not move or speak…But , oh how wrong was I. My mind is swamped with different thoughts and ways of punishing – ways to break this sudden spirit of hers. I stand up , her eyes follow my movement. I slowly towards my favorite place in the room. I approach the round cylindered piece of golden wood – a place where my worries float away , and so does my conciseness. A diamond like glinting shine radiates from the expensive bottle. I take hold of it , it’s lines and work is so precise – it is simply beautiful. It’s beauty camouflages the flowing poison inside. A trick…a beautiful trick.

Writing a long book is no small feat, and it is your enthusiasm and encouragement that has propelled me forward, even during the most challenging moments. This book has taken on a life of its own, evolving and growing as I delved deeper into its narrative, characters, and themes. It has demanded my undivided attention, consuming my thoughts and dreams, and I have poured every ounce of my being into its creation. I hope that the love and dedication I have invested in these pages shines through, and that it resonates with you in some profound way.

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.”

This was what contentment felt like. This was what having your entire world contained in your arms felt like. “What are you reading?” I asked, noting the way she relaxed completely against me, trusting me to hold her, to keep her safe. “Poetry. Some old collection I found in the back corner.” “Any good?” “Some of it. Though most of it is very dramatic. Lots of tortured souls and unrequited love.” “Sounds depressing.” “A little. But some of the love poems are beautiful. Listen to this one.” She opened the book and began to read in that soft, musical voice that never failed to capture my complete attention.

𝐏𝐎𝐕 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐀 I was reading a book when I realized I hadn’t understood a single line. The book remained open on my lap. My eyes moved across the words, line after line, but nothing made sense. It was as if I was only passing over them… without truly absorbing anything. I let out a soft sigh. I turned the page anyway. Automatic. The room was silent.