I saw you once,
You muffled and laughed.
Held the book tight and tapped
Your knees too softly.
I fell in love with the view slowly.
You seem to enjoy the book deeply.
And admit it, you forgot about me.
Thus, sending my soul to extreme jealousy
I knew it, I’ve got to read.
I’ll buy a book and try not to bleed.
Never to bleed to words I couldn’t keep.
Nor weep for poems that I can’t relate to.
But I wonder why,
Why do you love them?
Those rhymes that don’t make a sense
And those lines I always fail to comprehend.
Tell me why. Have you been to it yourself?
Can you say that you fell for Shakespeare & Meyer?
That you loved like Romeo in search for Juliet?
Did you exactly bite like Edward but felt human like Bella?
Surely, you’ll say yes.
And you’ll pretend you understand.
Those moments of rapture and bliss.
You’ll assume that you breadth elation like Braveheart.
And think that Excalibur was for you, not for Arthur.
But, let me remind you.
Literature is as fleeting as time.
It travels like wind and dies like Pine.
Pine trees that do not bloom in winter
Is parallel to books that illuminate beauty only in spring.
But lo and behold!
I fell in love with the book.
I fell in love with you.
And I pray that you’ll love me back.
And not just the words written in paperback.