Poetry About Books Novels & Stories

Things forgotten touch me now— & they’re clouding me w/ forgiveness, rethinking the time I was asked the question I knew I would never understand, but that question brings things—slow walks, time & space, Fleetwood Mac glistening living rooms w/ home & midnight specials—wrapped w/ the cellophane intention that such question I wouldn’t forget could somehow become a beautiful title for a first book in poetry.

My mother guided me through the aisles, her fingers lightly tracing the spines of the books as she shared her favorite stories with me. Each book held a different world within its pages, and as my mother opened them, the scenes came to life before our very eyes. We traveled through time, witnessing historical events, exploring distant lands, and delving into fantastical realms. I was captivated by the richness of the stories, the depth of the characters, and the boundless imagination that leapt off the pages. In this library of dreams, my mother and I shared laughter and tears, exchanging thoughts and ideas, and immersing ourselves in the beauty of storytelling. It was a sanctuary of knowled

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 couldn't resist and wore a simple black wrap dress to go to the serene library. The mahogany bookshelves of the library rose up to the ceiling, creaking under leather spines and gilded titles. I lit a lamp and settled into my favorite armchair, the one that pushed up against the tall east window. In my lap was a collection of poems, verses of moonlit longing and kisses stolen. Outdoors, wind rustled through bare branches, and the faraway owl hooted.

“Mind if I read to you, princess of pain?” “Only if you feed me chocolate between stanzas.” He grinned. “Deal.” He sat beside me and opened the book with a kind of reverence that didn’t match his cocky voice. The poems he read weren’t romantic. Not exactly. But they had teeth. Rhythm. Rage. And something underneath it all that felt like devotion, buried deep. I listened with my eyes closed, breathing in the sound of his voice, the scent of tea, the ghost of Luca’s touch, the fading warmth of Nico’s fingers.

But she… didn’t flinch. Lena walked over to a little table display and picked up a thin, cloth-bound book. She walked over to him, holding it out like an offering. *The Quiet Between Lightning Strikes.* A poetry book. The cover was old and nubbly, the title scribbled in fine silver ink. Julian stared at it like it was an alien thing. "What's this?" "A book," she said, smiling. "I told you. I don't—"

Books are treasures. In saying that, judging from Lysander's last wife, maybe she didn't really seem like a bookworm kind of person and maybe his other wives too. I ran my fingers across the spines of the books before I sighed with great longing, feeling the raised letters and intricate designs. It's like touching the soul of each book. It's sad that I won't be here long to enjoy the feeling of transporting myself into another world. That's the power books had on me. Every inch of my room is a reflection of what I've always dreamt it would look like.

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.

"Can you do those three things?" "Yes." "Then come tomorrow. We'll see if you're honest or just desperate." She disappeared into the crowd before Yessica could respond. She barely slept. Lay in the narrow bed with both hands on her stomach, talking quietly to the baby about bookshops and second chances and women who saw through armor. At eight-forty the next morning, she stood outside Pages & Poetry. It was exactly right. Narrow. Crammed from floor to ceiling with books. A handwritten sign in the window. The bell above the door sounded like the start of something.

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?”