vellichor

watch the dust gently brush off the old volumes in a line
your fingers draw upon the time-waned spines, millions
of xanthic pages turned brittle in this stale, dry air. inhale
the fragrance of ancient stories, sitting in stifled tomes
and waiting for a new pair of eyes to wonder at the words.
you dive hungrily into forgotten timelines, into memories
that others have touched, but never replayed the same way.
each is a room of thoughts with locked doors, and you
have the key to all of them. yet time unwaveringly dwindles,
and there is still an infinity of rooms you haven’t unlocked,
thousands of books you do not have the time to read. for
every thought you swallow, there are millions more icebound
like an insect forever preserved in amber. watch with regret
as the dust collects on your finger, time giving you enough
to wander through only a fraction of each annexed tale,
the chronicles of time filtered through visionary minds
and woven in a spiel of history. you walk into the bookstore,
the past whispering, waiting to be reopened and relived,
dusting off your life-tracing fingers. you will come here
again and again and again until you cannot anymore.