Floor to Ceiling

 The city street was quiet.
The East end 
silenced 
by the Sunday evening
Morose. 
Dark.
A cool breeze.
I walked home.
In a window
That dripped
Soft
Warm
Light
stood a bookcase
Floor to ceiling 
That made me think 
Of you.
Whoever you are. 
You’ll one day 
build one.
One day
Stand before it.
Transfixed 
At the bindings.
Caught in a stare
At their titles:
Words 
that encapsulate  
So much. 
A subtle backward lean
One arm 
a shelf for the other
As your dominant hand
Rests softly 
Underneath your lip:
A comfortable chin rest.
Like a mechanical lever
The hand 
gently glides 
from your face 
to the shelf.
Your eyes follow 
the binding
Your smile 
arrives 
Once more. 
And I’ll be standing
Outside a window
watching 
This all unfold. 
A smile will arrive
Once more. 
And you’ll notice me 
as your eyes glance 
Away from the bookcase
For the first time.
Or maybe you won’t.
But I’ll smile all the same.
To see you
In that moment
In your element
Of words
Ideas 
In the womb of your library
Our library.
Birthed.
Realised. 
Lived out. 
And conversed with. 
The city street was quiet. 
But my mind, far from it.
Far from the street.
But close to you. 
Whoever you are.