And i’ve counted
since the day it stopped
over and over again
always making sure
I kept reading the words
that mattered.
The sensitive promise
keeping this perfect record of
the number of books
that together we’ll read.
That number
multiplied by months,
then years,
running without much notice,
but still, it’s important to read.
The titles to books
the list keeps growing and
I’m not so picky anymore,
I swear.
I feel like not sleeping
always trying to get back
into the make believe.
I live my life
in a myriad of genres
love without action
a true historic fiction
a sensless biopic
spread out over centuries
just like my love for you.
anyway, i don’t care
if you point fingers
and fall hopelessly
it doesn’t matter to me
because I’ve got books to read.
a thousand perfect stories
true companionship and love
i can see right through
each minor character flaw,
as long as I’m patient
the stories action
will eventually rise.
I can’t compare
my days anymore
the pace I’ve set for myself
thank goodness
for artificial lighting.
the hours
i spend lost in words
like the story of the girl
who can float between worlds.
I am in love with 6 characters
and I hesitate to finish
not wanting to ever say
goodbye.
Each day I make a promise
i’ll only read for an hour,
then i can’t help myself
the drug addiction
the fucking words
they slip inside my veins
like the biggest rush
of fresh air.
i wonder if,
there is anyone else
that has this addiction too?
There has to be someone
who would covet my list
cherish and guard it
perhaps defend my choices
make them your favorites too.
I’ve always thought
it romantically pretty
when two people read together
sharing and taking turns
lovers of the same book
one listens, while the other reads.
Instead,
I’ve got just me
reading and listening at once
a set of digital words,
inside my head.
