“Between the Shelves”

Between the Shelves
 
In my attempt to avoid the
Obviousness of my self indulgence
I have perhaps merely shined a
Brighter light upon it…
I needn’t bring to your attention
The conception that I have sorely missed
Your warm embrace from the moment
You began to hide between the shelves…
 
Having only observed the brightness of your eyes
In moments of brevity, whilst your face appears
From time to time, arising from between the covers
That surround the imaginations of those
With which you now spend your time…
 
Hiding there amongst the horses
Or the passions and desires of another
Will not change your reality…
Yet… I suppose your awareness
Has already embraced those truths…
By replacing that reality
With what lies betwixt the bindings
 
You have never been one to
Judge by the covers from dust
That have wrapped themselves around
The hardened cardboard that
Holds within it the mystery and intrigue
And perhaps…
The poetry…
 
I have observed you hiding between those shelves
Perhaps a thousand times within a fortnight…
Yet, I have yet to see you read a single word…
And only in seldomness do I find your eyes
Before a written page…
Yet, you seem to find delight in the mere
Touch of them against you…
As if perhaps they possess what you desire so greatly,
While your life in this world does not…
 
I have seen but thrice
What I may have imagined to be
A smile upon your face
While you gaze at the open pages of
Zane’s “West of the Pacos”…

It appeared to me once,
In a brief moment of observation
That had remained undetected
By your intense concentration on
One particularly and obviously
entertaining absorption of words
upon a page …
That you had imagined yourself
Riding furiously across the plains
Upon the back of Steinbeck’s red pony…
Flowing within the hand gallop of the roan…
But, then… perhaps I was mistaken…
 
I miss the touch and the softness of your hair
Against the palm of my hand,
For you have found your way
Into the depths and darkness of the shelves
Where my reach cannot find you…
 
There have been times when I hear you speaking…
I have wondered if you are speaking
To the characters within the pages
Or perhaps speaking only to yourself…
Or I suppose…
You could be speaking with those
Who have found their way
Into the darker regions of hiding,
Between those very shelves…
 
I long for you to climb down
From your total absorption
Of a life immersed only in
The fiction of another…
Perhaps you may one day
Wend your way into the
Poetry of Emily Dickinson
Or that of Robert Frost
Or…
Perhaps the poetry of
Your own reasoning…
 
Having little response from you
In love or in laughter or in
What use to be our sharing of wisdom
I suppose that I must assume that you
Exist in the same state as some of
Those whom reside along with you
In your hiding amongst the shelves…
And those whom reside within you…
Spineless in form…
Hiding amongst the fantasies of fiction…
Held together by mere threads
Penetrating your pages
While unraveling upon the edges…
 
But I will be forever steadfast
In my hopes of your return
From between the shelves
Of reality and imagination…
From between the darkness and the light…
From the feel of the pages against your skin…
To the touch of my fingertips…
© 2014

Please don’t hide so deeply in the darkness
Of the shelves…
That my reach cannot find you…

Michael33