The sound of pages turning.
The smell of old paper.
The quiet whispers and muffled laughter.
The intriguing words and phrases.
The boy pushing his glasses up.
The girl pulling her hair behind her ear.
The clicking of computer keys.
The crinkling of old books.
The slight smiles at a silent joke read.
The small tears at the sad words.
The boy pretending not to be bored.
The girl so involved she gasp aloud.
The girl slamming the book shut at the ending.
The boy quietly closing the laptop.
The room is quiet.
The air peaceful.
And the letters surrounding me are inviting.
I am at home.
YOU ARE READING
Dreaming With Your Eyes Open
PoetryThey say what's dead is never really gone. They say all kinds of things They say there are 5 stages of grief. I feel a hundred. They say you're in a better place. But wouldn't that be with me? What's better than being with the ones you love? I k...
