I’ve always wanted to be kissed in a bookstore, my body gently pressed against the poetry section. Bookstores are the most romantic of places. They are full of ancient history and secrets, brimming with full bodied sentences and the scent of jasmine wafting out from exotic storyscapes. They are places of escape and content, of danger and peace. In book stores, one gets lost and one finds oneself on shelves that are at once unfamiliar yet make perfect sense. Of course parts of you were left in the Mesopotamia section, its only logical.
I imagine being looked at in the way I look at books after I finish them, with wonder, gratitude, warmth spreading over my skin, a hand placed at the spine. Or with confusion, with puzzlement. Yes, I want that too. Look at me with confusion, with puzzlement. But mostly with wonder, I want to be looked at with wonder. I want to be lead down the aisles of an old winding book store. The sort of book store where books fall off shelves and you have to side step around piles. Pull books down from the dusty shelves and read random snippets of books read out loud to me, the sentences that make you smile. I want to hear you laugh, laugh before you put your hands to my waist, bow your head towards me. Look at me, look at me with wonder. How did you find this novel of a girl, this little slip of a poem, this curious newspaper clipping? Did you find her in the pages of a book, tucked into the binding? You must have, that’s the only sort of place I really reside.
I sometimes sit on the floors of bookstores, and simply read book titles. I run my fingers across them, this is a form of meditation. If enough words sink into my skin, I will be more whole, I will be of better form. So in my curving train of thought, relationships founded among the shelves of books surely have enough ink to flourish. A silly thought? Probably. Write it down dear, it will last longer. Book stores are the homes of all sorts of longing, all sorts of secrets, all sorts of starts. Mine have only been of the ink variety as of yet, but I am not opposed to the meeting of flesh and star blazed eyes, pressed against the poetry section. Our heads bowed, excuse me Emily Sylvia Plath, excuse me Richard Blanco. Having to make those sort of apologies, oh no, I’m not opposed to that at all, dear.