Subtle beats like ballerina footsteps,
Bass lines chasing piano arpeggios.
I turn my eyes upward,
My hands on the wooden banister,
I walk slowly,
The music behind me like a draping cape of promises,
of wonder and awaiting amazement.
He had the most prolific library,
Boastful and bursting,
Leather-bound first editions,
teetering cracked spines,
Rare paperback novels,
Collections of essays and poetry,
And scores of lined paper,
covered in ink and some empty,
waiting to become a store of memories and fantasies.
As I leave it behind me,
Walking up towards him
as if I was walking into the sun,
I hear him call my name,
the sound sweeter than music.
I see his hands beckoning me closer,
And as I close my eyes to breathe him in,
He pulled me closer,
And all thoughts of books disappear.