borrowed love

A quick little poem I wrote last night about library books. Or men. Or both? You decide.

Men are like library books.
I’ll find one that glows from beyond a pretty cover,
full of promises on the inside flap.
Hold it in my hands to feel its weight,
then put it in my sack.
I take my time
Breathe in that old book smell
that makes you wonder where it’s been before.
I’ll marvel at its contents
as gorgeous words unfurl –
vivid prose upon my tongue
just like a gleaming pearl.
I don’t treat it well,
as if it were my own.
A spill, a tear, a careless fold
these are the liabilities – I’m told.
I like the crinkle that the cover makes,
lands beyond, the gliding hours of my time
I’ll beg it to romance me
to thrill me with its twists,
to turn about my world
for just a bit of bliss.
I’m almost sad it’s over,
you know it’s got to end
And as I slip it back upon its shelf,
my heart will slowly mend.
I only came to borrow, dear…
I didn’t come to buy.

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