Book Binding

I’m in a bookstore.
The old and quaint and beautiful kind,
made for the uncommitted browzer.
And it smells like you.
It all does.
It all smells like you
and I can’t bring myself to leave.
To give up my final opportunity to pinpoint exactly what kind of tumreric and
aged paper and cedar you’ve bathed in
to bring the scent of burnt wood and rain
into my bed every night in our mild January.
Oh,
it all smells of you.
This time it is so hard to leave.

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