Little shelves,
They hold little lives.
They hold small pages & large adventures;
They hold the ghosts of vacations past,
The shadows of letters never sent.
All alone they dwell,
A sea of foamy desires & obtuse visions,
So precious to the under-observed self,
So tied in to the bones of creation.
One little lie stitched into thousands,
Cannot undo the glue that holds together,
Such a perfume of thought and emotion.

I weep when the doors are closed,
The locks locked,
The worlds abandoned.
The words, they scream for my attention,
And I am duty-bound to give it to them.
I unlock the locks,
I open the doors which are closed,
I pull a volume from up high,
And spill those lives upon my soul.
They make a splash,
Like waves lapping upon shore.
They are like the clink of two champagne flutes,
Like the drop of a blanket upon a fresh bed.

I will wait here for a while,
With the doors opened.
Come sit with me a while;
Enjoy the morning.

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