I love everything about books, it's texture, smell, feel and the wonderful tales in them, of course. Currently I have a small, ever expanding collection of books and one day I dream of having a complete wall as a bookshelf, my own personal library. I'm often found staring at bookshelves, be it at home or at a library or a bookstore, spell bounded and exhilarated. My parents and my friends find it amusing to see me like that, they say I am at my happiest then. Books have always been more real than reality to me, the most consistently ubiquitous part of my existence like a chunk of my soul. 
I stare at them
And they stare back,
Looking me in my eyeMy gaze hungry and lustful,
Their's friendly, fiery and modest.
Some are slim, dark and intellectual,
Most of them fat and fair;Ready to get me hooked.
It's a darn hard choice to make
As 'pick me!',Each one pleads.
For now I'm at my most promiscuous,
Flirting with and pondering over, each one.
My dilemma transforms to awe,As their calm poise reflects,
Through my soul.
Funny how stacks of binded paper
And imprinted ink,Seem to have more life than any living Tom or Dick!
