In the library of my heart
are thousands of slim volumes.
There are no rules
against dog earring pages.
Writing in margins
is encouraged.
There are many comfy chairs,
sage and amethyst rugs,
and surprisingly tall ceilings
with ladders for reaching
the highest shelves.
Dust never collects here,
the cream candles never burn out,
though sometimes
a chapter or two is lost
and no one notices.
It smells of vanilla
and lavender and old paper.
It smells of autumns
and moonlight and loss.
Is it any wonder
I sometimes go days
without leaving here?
But sometimes,
though I have in my hand
the key to get in,
I just can’t find the door.