bibliophilia

in the library
this afternoon,
i run my fingers
along the plastic wrapped spines
of novels
and wonder, silently,
whatever happened to
untouched
leather bindings.

i remember winters
at my grandmothers
in the formal living room,
which we only used
for cocktail parties
and christmas morning,
imagining what it would feel like
to own
the collected works of dickens
in matching green leather
with gold edged pages.

i would celebrate the
rough canvas covers to austen,
in pale blue,
shakespeare in weather
camel tones,
mark twain in soft black leather.

i would taste the sweet book scent
on my tongue
amongst the pages of thoreau and emerson,
listen to the crack of the spine of dostoevsky,
the sound of amazement
in books so old.

but i am not sure i prefer
those unread and unloved beauties
on my grandmother's white shelves.

i am not sure i don't love the
way a library favorite
has pages so worn that the
paper has pulled away from its neighbor,
the book falling open to the page
where the sheaves no longer meet.

the scent of its well loved
pages,
the memory of the hundreds
of hands who soaked
in these words
before me,
are somehow more comforting than
the books of my childhood imaginings.

i run my hands across the spines
deep in the stacks,
and think about
the words we share,

and the words we don't.