When my dad parked

our car next to the curb

in front of the library stairs,

my hand was already reaching for the door handle.

The thought of

books crowded every corner of my mind.

The stories that itched to escape their pages,

words that wished to touch my eyes.

Countless rows of colorful covers

each spine printed with delicate golden patterns.

Cursive titles that

intertwined themselves around my fingers

when I swept them

across the front pages.

My hand released the door handle quickly,

my father's voice

fastened my thoughts back into the seat of the car.

The engine

had stopped running

and his words

hung in the air.

Walk close the car when you get out.

I reached for the door handle again

only to grasp nothing but the air beneath it,

I was distracted by what I saw

across from the library.

Dark figures sat

dressed in tattered blankets and trash bags

grey smoke curled from their chapped lips,

each exhale followed with a sigh.

Dirt caked their hair and surrounded their eyes

left over from their nights spent on the ground.

Bare and sickly,

they blended in perfectly among the shadows

casted by the surrounding leafless trees.

For a brief moment,

they reminded me

of every book I ever walked past

and didn't pick up.

Countless shelves

with dozens of books

closed off from the rest of the world,

pressed up tightly

against each other.

My heart longed

for their stories,

the stories that will never be told.

But just like the books I've ignored,

I left them as the doors of the library

slammed shut behind me.