Book Love

We are all guilty of escaping reality with a good book


1. Book Love

You fit  so perfectly into the crook of my elbow, cradled  like a child . I carried you into my flat in the  late afternoon, with grocery strained fingers and key muffled greetings to the neighbours.

                 Your ridged spine against the palm of my hand , the plush of the bean bag consuming me.

                This was point A and you where to relinquish me , to bare me away  from down town alley ways and cheap coffee shops and the deceptively  bright lights of this city.

                In my tiny hub of a world, within  my  shelf insulated walls , that I have burrowed myself into, crawled in with shot knees and unfurling sides, that I had dug out with bloodied nails. I curl into myself like a tiny furred mammal, while the walls breath around me.

 I find realise.

                As the hours go by I slip in and out of this internal conflict, between mind and body, my neck aches, the phone rings but envy time I reach back in it is like submerging myself in a hot steaming bath and it puts me at ease, it is as natural as drifting in and out of sleep on a Sunday morning, that simple serenity,  as pathetic as the man who writes you notes in your lipstick, who leaves rose petals on the pillow case beside you,  explaining why he wasn't there when you woke up.

                  If I  ever ventured outside and happened to find love, I would  fold your pages into an origami rose, and tell him to keep you underneath his pillow at night so that he would dream of flowers  collecting morning dew,  so he could understand how you are a blue print, you fateful fantasy  an architect's  sketch an artist's impression, etched in the sand and how  it is left up to me to connect the dots, to find a constellation in the universe you set before me.

                Until I feel as much the creator as the man who sat behind his desk and marvelled , knowing  he created something of wonder. knowing I share ownership of this remarkable wreckage of water bleed pages and creased spines, and paper cut dispensers

                  The hours of my life that Charlotte Bronte, Ernest Hemmingway, Mark Twain and Shakespeare stole, that  I had to put back together again piece by piece over  many days and weeks, only for me to find that when I arise again, I have gained no ground , travelled no further and I am in the same desperate state as before.

                If I could only see above the smog and the city lights so I could  breath in the scent of the once trees that helped form your sacred body as I drown in your being, you are my undoing.

                The delusion is beautiful, the breath taking lie.

                   As you fall , in the moments when you are still in the air are elongated to the  point where you don't recognise the threat and start  believe you can fly.

                 Reality ebbs back like a cold cruel shock.

                 The first contact with the ground,  when you first realise you fell , when you first realise that you where wrong and your hope and trust was misplaced.

                As  the palms of my hands skim the wet gravel  and tear open with the sharp bee sting ridges of the ground  I remind myself that all things must come back down to earth .

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