The books pile up,
Waiting ever-so patiently,
Longing to be read,
To be devoured by an avid reader.
A person who inhabits,
The same room as those books,
Gazed at them longingly,
With eyes full of love.
With a smile of hope,
Her arm is outstretched,
Towards the now dusty shelf-
A book is chosen.
She caresses the book gently,
Fingers tracing the embossed title,
She draws the book close to her chest,
And warms its cold spine with a hug.
A million emotions course through her,
Bittersweet remembrances of the past,
When reading was life,
And life meant reading.
With a wistful smile, she realises,
Those are days of a bygone era,
For deep down, she knows,
She lacks the commitment required to finish the book.
With a burdened heart,
Her arm is outstretched once again,
This time with sorrow and regret-
The book is replaced on the shelf.
She turns away with one last look,
But not before a tear splashed down her face,
What she didn't know was that,
In silence, the books were mourning too.
