Monday, September 14, 2009


There's a smell in yellowed
much thumbed pages fo old books
I bury my head into them.

There's an individuality in each
much loved poem, book
book ends, old friends.

There are personalities, memories
hidden in handwritten letters
I gently rub my lips against them.

a lovely, comforting smell hidden
in hot cakes from the bakery, in good food
in the open freshly-wahes hair
gently caressing my back

pen-paper inviting me to write
listening to deliciously romantic songs
as I nod off to sleep, late nights

this is where I come to
when I hide-away.

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