Novel & Cerita Poetry On Book

“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.”

The crackling fire spat, dawning in me the realization that even in the stillness of the night, there was still warmth to be found. I involuntarily walked towards a certain shelf containing a familiar row of books, my hands scaling slowly through the books there. It was poetry,my favourite while young. back then it was an old friend, a comfort whenever I come to the library after a long and tiring day. I fell in love with poetry, and it fell in love with me. As I opened the book of poetry that night, I scanned through the pages of the book. It all seemed to come alive as I stood there,the large book on my arm.

As soon as I opened my eyes, I rushed into my future in-laws' bedroom. As expected, they were lying on the bed, their faces pale, lips tinged with blue. Having lived through this once before, I knew immediately that they had been poisoned. I pulled out my phone. Just as I was about to call for an ambulance, Dylan Turner walked out of the room, fully dressed. He held my car keys in his hand. Glancing at his parents on the bed, he remained cold and indifferent. "I'm borrowing your car."

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.”

"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.

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.

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,

Pulled the book out. It was a slim volume of poems. Contemporary, literary, the sort of thing that wins prizes and sits unread on most people's shelves. But this copy had been read. The spine was cracked at multiple points, and when I opened it, the pencil marks were everywhere — single words underlined, question marks in the margins, occasionally a longer note in handwriting that was smaller and more controlled than I expected. Sharp. Precise. I sat in the worn reading chair and opened to a marked page and read.

"No, it doesn't rain very much there. And I would love to visit Mumbai sometime." Unsure of what to say next, I let the conversation lapse. He was very much engrossed in his book and I didn't think he was going to let his attention waver much. I took a peek at the cover to find it was a poetry book. So I let out a small sigh of dissatisfaction as I closed my eyes and stretched out a bit more. I felt the heat of the rays press kisses against my skin and I sprawled on the chaise further, hoping to renew some semblance of the tan I had inherited from my mother. From the corner of my eye, I took a peek of him again to find him still captivated by the book.

>POV: CARRIE Thе nоtеbооk іѕ becoming mу constant соmраnіоn. I’vе read аnd rе-rеаd іt ѕо many tіmеѕ, thеrе аrе paragraphs I knоw vеrbаtіm. I dесіdе іt’ѕ tіmе to leave mу mark.