A story that wasn’t written for me
But pages that compel my wistful dreams.
Language to fascinate my hankering nerve endings
And a narrative to drive me mad.
I wish to dance upon each abounding folio,
Twirling my feet beside its gravitational words.
To fall back onto its comforting, cloud-like spine,
And to press my fingertips upon its magnetic pages.
A story in which I beg the author to pencil me in.
One of indistinguishable characters,
And chapters little known to me,
But such a title that forever steals my stares.
Although my book sits my plan,
And my outcasted toes still circle its pages by force,
My story feels all wrong.
Because my heart dances vehemently somewhere else.
