In The Books

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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.

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