Dust collects on my jacket
as I pull out another book.
Lost in the pages.
The scent of used books
absorbs into my skin
and I curl in the corner.
Time is punctuation
at the end of each sentence
and I read on.
Build a fortress within genres
walls of literature
and my imagination
can build communities.
Characters dance from my mind.
I can trace their history
in smudged ink on my fingertips.
The bookstore cats find home
in my lap, and they purr
away the hours as I fall
into piles of books.
Poetic Trials 
memories