Books

I am sitting quietly in the library, trying to work. This one is a beautiful room. Quaint and victorian, with small alcoves and curving arches. Old, brown wood. Carved wood. Clotted, glowey lamps in small bursts of light through each little alcove. And books. I am surrounded by books. Shelves on the walls. Layers and layers of books, stacked and stable and ancient. Some of them have covers that seem to have swallowed water without getting wet: strangely damp and cold. Some have pages like mothwings. Something brushes off them when I touch them.
These books are distracting. They sit there, seducing me silently. I want to pull them out one by one and make love to them. Sit in this room with its dense yellow light and scented, brown wood, for a hundred years and read. Just sit and read. A hundred years of words. A hundred years of stories. A hundred years of the said and spoken.

And occasionally, look out the window.
To see the unspoken. The un-worded.
The untold story that brought me here. A gentle reminder.
That he lives.