Finding Love

I run my fingertips softly along
Row after row of colourful spines
Which wait, anticipating the biting of my lip
And furrowed brow
Leaning in to read their title
And select them with a pointed finger

I wander dreamily along
Narrow corridors of novels and text books;
"Nothing in mind, just looking"
And wait for my eye to be caught.

I see a few I like the look of, and so
Pull them curiously from their shelf,
I begin to read.
After flipping absent-minded
Across the introduction
And not sinking deep into the plot
I place them back in their lonely slots once more.
They never look quite the same...
I mean: their spines are a little cracked,
And the pages at the beginning no longer meet
As neatly as before,
As I have tucked some of my memories between them
As a memento of my being there

Once in a while, I get deep into a book
And curl up in a soft armchair,
But something always distracts me:
Someone rings to see if I want to get coffee,
Or I remember I have dry cleaning to pick up,
And the book is left on a coffee table
Never to be looked at again.

But, just recently,
I found a book in a box of trinkets
And it caught my eye.
I picked it up, and felt the weight of its shape
In my hands. I wanted it.
I wanted to know what story it had inside.
I took it home,
And began to read

The thing is,
Now I can't stop reading it,
And... I hope to one day,
(When I am old, and grey
And breathing my last breath)
Finish this book
And see how it ends.

Truth is, I know it will be a happy ending,
But I keep reading anyway