Books fill the shelves
Books filled with words
I run my hand across the spines
Binding worn from many reads
I pull one from the row
As it opens
The spine creaks
The musty smell creeps from the pages
The kind of smell
Only old books carry
I flip through it
The dog eared pages
Familiar against my fingers
I could spend hours
Among the shelves
Musty book smell
Surrounding me
This is by far
My favorite place to be
