Envy, ever around my neck, choking me
with your poison. My throat turns blue
when I can't spit you out, hissing as you
burn the floor.
Envy for the space to put all these books,
these treasures, that will otherwise
end up given away and I regret their
leaving, my orphaned books for lack of
shelf space.
How ever can I decide to keep Kafka or
Tolstoy, Orwell or Lem. Books I may
only ever open once to read, but delight
in seeing their smiling covers, smiling
at me, remembering our time together.
To have such space as I can have bookshelves.
Now that would be something.
No comments:
Post a Comment