The Old Library

The smell of old paper

Sends a shiver down my spine,

It smells like it’s been

Here for a while.

How they last so long,

I’ll never know.

The feel of leather bindings

Of every shape and kind

Soft, yet hard. Smooth, but rough.

The tickle beneath my fingers,

As I run my hand over

The pages.

The near silent flip of pages,

The slight taps of big books being laid down.

Music to my ears. These sounds that I love

Bring rushes of memories.

Old and new tales from stories I’ve read.

Colors, brown and beige,

Bright ones added here or there.

Make a rainbow of tales

In color, times, and ages.

So many to choose from,

So many to read. I want them all,

To feel the pages glide between my fingers

The tickling smoothness of every page

Of every book beneath my hands.

To see the white, or fadedness or yellowness of age.

To read all the words written,

Over years and centuries from all, and so many.

The wisdom of them all, and

The funny tales shared over and over

Based on stories from long ago.

The rows upon rows,

Of new books and old,

So many books, it would be

Near impossible to read them all, but I still want.

To read them all, and have them all.

To own every single last page, in every

Single last book. The smell of so many book,

Constantly surrounding me,

Would be my heaven.