In the basement of Chelsea Market (New York, New York) there is one of the loveliest bookstores in the world. Posman books is in my top three favorite bookstores in the world, which is a hard list to make considering I’ve been to more than your usual handful of bookstores in my lifetime. As a bibliophile, I seek out bookstores. Everywhere I go. Alone, with friends, in a group, with my family. I’m the one dragging whoever I’m with into a bookstore. Used, new, commercial, local- I don’t discriminate. Recently, I was with a group of friends in Posman books browsing through the crowded stacks of novels and biographies, searching for a new book of poetry to read. I recently fell in love with “Milk and Honey” by Rupi Kaur (who hasn’t?) and have since been on the prowl for more poetry to read. I’ve lately caught the poetry reading bug, and haven’t been able to stop reading it since I got my hands on “Milk and Honey”. After browsing for a while I approached the counter with a book of inspirational quotes by a favorite author of mine - Cheryl Strayed, and a book of English translated French poetry. Setting them on the counter, I began my regular bookstore banter with the tall man behind the counter.

“Do you have bookmarks?” I questioned with a twinge of hope to my voice. I collect bookmarks from local bookstores and particularly liked my Posman bookmarks which had become tattered from overuse. It had been a while since I’d been there.

“Sure, I’ll throw those in the bag as well.” The man responded, looking up from books on the desk.

“Do you own this store? It’s wonderful.” I remarked, looking around the crowded store. I could see all types of people, paging through leather bound delicacies or new paperbacks, entranced in their stories and characters. The divergent plotlines, the beautiful alliteration. There was a strange sense of calm throughout the crowd, a lull of conversation yet at the same time, blissful silence. How people read when nobody is watching, the world surely must not exist for them at that moment. Just them and the pages. Just them and the words.

“Oh no, I wish.” The man responded with a smile. For a second I wished I owned it too. It was perfect. It stopped time. Before handing me my change he paused, he seemed to be thinking.

“Do you write poetry?” He inquired to me forcing me to think back to the days in high school when poetry was all that I wrote.
“Yes,” I answered, remembering my notebooks on my desk and my folders filled with scratch paper and fast food napkins, scribbled with prose. A tinge of nostalgia hit me. I missed poetry. The man’s face became very serious.

“Never stop writing poetry. Promise me you won’t. Because one day, one day soon, this world is going to turn around, and people are going to need poetry. We’re all going to need poetry. Desperately. With our lives.” With his final comment he handed me my change and my books. I looked back at him, right in his eyes.

“I promise,” I said, and I really meant it.

****

Here’s what I wrote in my moleskine on the train ride home, it is untitled:

The world has left us

With screaming and terror

and pins in eyes.

Tears flowing fast

Down hollowed cheeks

Love tarnished by the grips of distance

And fire

And blood

Streaking the back doors window pane.

Fingers that cannot write or live or cook or be or feel

Eyes that cannot see

When stolen love

Was more lost than found.

Nothing is left

Just cruelty

Just empty promises

Empty bottles

Insanity.

A world without love

Might be the worst thing that ever could be.

****