Heaven (Bookstores) 

Sometimes inspiration is scarce. Sometimes the worlds so damn chaotic I can hardly think let alone write. But then I enter a bookstore and everything quiets. I could spend hours here, in this space between spaces. I could find inspiration here, if open to it. I could think here. In fact I'm forced to. 

And here's what's on my mind: poetry. I haven't written enough of it. Or at least I hadn't when this picture was taken, edited and posted on Instagram like some trophy. Look! A book with butterflies. A book with ideas escaping it in front of my eyes. I grabbed a few. Just a few but it worked. I think. You tell me. 


"There are things I wish you'd tell me. Like how uninviting my backside must be when I turn to give you better access. You sleep then. Soundlessly. I wish you'd tell me how desperate my "I love you's" must sound to your certain ears. They mean more then three simple words. They are a question, a plea, a bargain. A contract signed, sealed and delivered. At least by me. But there I go again with the desperate. I wish you'd tell me to worry, because that's normal. For me. You should tell me that things are indeed uncertain and the world is terrible place but when you're with me it doesn't matter. Don't erase the bad. Don't even try. Give it to me. Tell me. And stay regardless."

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