Antiquarian
Dust veils the words I once caressed
Set aside in a box, forgotten
Pages filled with my little notes
Borges. Neruda. Charles Bukowski.
My midnight companions exiled
They are no longer on my nightstand
A corner left for the remnants of me
My old books stacked with the books showcasing my smile
I got my dream, they say
Should I thank you?
Should I forgive you?
Didn’t I ask for this?
The scent of vanillin
Always carries me away
Bookstores were my solace
Is that why I could not fathom
Who you were?
Hey, you
Was I just a rare edition to you?
You restored my binding
You thought you were putting the right strength
When you hammered me
You claimed I am as good as a new
Yet, I am still me on the inside
Trapped in this new cover
In a glass cage
Who could I blame now?
I walked back in
Every book needs a final act
Even if it is a tragedy
Was it my fault?
I knew in my heart
You,
You were the right one
My saviour
In the end, I became the damsel in distress
Silenced
Tucked in a dusty shelf of your fantasy
-Giah
















