Wooden shelves
On rough carpet
Warm
Because I’ve been sitting on it
Between the aisles
With my head hunched
Over my book
Time passes to the sound of turning pages
Soft, occasional, footsteps
And the falling of rain outside
I am surrounded
By the books
Sleeping on their shelves
Their everlasting slumber uninterrupted
Until someone picks them up
Opens them
And unleashes the world inside
Like them
I am separate from the rest of the world
Unaware of my surroundings
Floating
In the world of my book
Until I hear a voice calling my name
“It’s time to go”
Sighing, I pack my book
Until next time