Inside dimly lit libraries
bookshelves extend across
unending wooden walls,
flooded with volumes
like rivers bursting
over the brim.
Book piles lay scattered
across marble floors
where they run wild
like children on pavement.
My fingers trace the
shells of beloved novels,
coarse to the touch
with rugged spines ridged
like skeletal backbones
and covers protecting pages
like ribcages shielding hearts.
I pick up a book
housed atop a pile,
and place it in my hand to feel
cool leather against my palm.
I open it up to reveal
crisp pages colored with yellow corners,
golden edges, faded black words,
and rough brown patches left
behind from spilled coffee stains.
My fingers ache from the weight
of ten thousand stories,
unable to turn the pages,
fumbling with thin crinkled sheets
as I stand surrounded like an island
in an ocean of books.