All Books Deserve Love
Ashen adorned, all is alright. A survivor of arson, I will always adore.
Blessed is my brain, if a bit biased, for it believes a book, beaten and bashful, barely breathing, is by far better than a book barely bruised.
Creased or crusty, come into my cerebellum. Your covers caved or covered in coffee: to be discounted, comical. You deserve my coins and coffers.
Decayed, you sit, dismayed and disfigured as you watch dissidents distracted by the decorum of the drab and dainty of your "dearest" neighbour. I'm dishonoured and disappointed by them, but I stand only to desire you. Let me digest your words and dissolve my distant distraught.
Earnest, I am. I beg, bend me your sweet dogged ears. I enjoy you the most, my effortless empathy evident in every evocative emotion. I am not embarrassed to encompass you, you enlighten me.
Fret not your frayed edges, I can feel your fear. Afraid of falling apart into so many feathers. My grip is firm but focused on your finely featured faces; if your cheeks could flush red, I'll flatter you.
Greater gladness I couldn't garner or gather from a garden of gold. Geared exactly for me, in your grey and geriatric gestures, a world grim and gloom or glimpses of greener grandeurs.
Hold your breath, my holey friend. You are homely to me: a hearth unto my heart. Honest and honourable, you help me hope for a heaven with hills of happiness.
Imagine for an iota, an instance, an injustice, in which I inadvertently instigated your ire. I missed you, in the interest of the inaugural bestseller. I implore you, I couldn't ever desire. I investigate every index, your injuries inject me with intoxicating infection.
Jealousy is all my bookshelf feels when another joins its ranks, and in every flip, I justify the jury.
Kleptomaniac, you could call me, when I carry you close. When I steal and carve time away from that kangaroo court. Keep your knuckles white, my king, for they may grow too cantankerous and kick you off with a knife in your back.
Lines hardly legible, your letters lengthened and stretched by errant liquid. Was it lemon or lime, I’ll never know. Your lacquered leather covers ever so slightly longer, a level of design left unintentional, but I’m in love.
Malign my mind, I’ve missed my manners. You must be so uncomfortable, or at minimum mildly so. Come, allow me to move you away from the morning sun and marigolds; too much moisture, even meagre, to maybe grow mould.
Never you nag; you need not be nervous. My nieces and nephews are just as nurtured. You’ll be their nanny, in a niche kind of manner. They’re needy younglings, restless indeed.
On the ottoman you sit, my newly obtained original. Away from the shelf, on my obstinate October nights.
Parched, I feel. A palm bay, perhaps. I purse my lips as the perspiration falls and puddles on your pages. Pink lemonade in a perfect, damp perimeter.
Quenched, we both now are as we sit back on our queer couch. I shudder and quake at the continued thought of your quaint stain, but I trust you can take it; you're a queen, after all.
Reign for years; long lives the regal matriarch. You wouldn’t dare let an unrare mark mar your reputation. Your respect in this house is irrefutable.
Speaking of such, your story searched between stains is of a stellar state. Your scars go beyond that story and speak for themselves the star that you are.
‘Tis a tall tale that you sometimes tell, though: traipsing through trees in a darkened tundra or travelling into trunken taverns. I tell all that take steps over my threshold about your tales, and let your tears bring them to tears.
Ultraviolet rays couldn’t truly utter your true understanding, you’re a marvel to my universe.
Virtues and veneration, you’re an avatar of both. I’ll venture with you anywhere, where valiant valkyries verse vacuous vampires.
Wondrous whispers on the winds before every white-washed book front. Weathered wainscotting, waving in the wind, beckoning me within. I wince as my wallet withers, and my watch shows what others would say is wasted time as it wastes away.
Xenoliths, a rock within another rock. Like a vexing story written in damage and years with another story within, an apex predator among oxes.
Yawning for bed, as if yesteryear had come and gone. I yak, and I yabber, with a mouth yearning for yummy water. I’ll walk over yonder, and lay my head down. I try to dream of stringy wool, or maybe some yarn, oh what things you could make out of such yew-coloured sheep. But I dreamt of sheep yesterday, and because I’m a Libra, for the sake of balance, tonight shall be…
Zebra.
