Silence of the Books

Alex Mascarenhas's picture


And still, cameras or no cameras,
even libraries close.
As the P.A. system announces fifteen minutes to closing,
we instead steal stealthily toward the back of the huge room,
the scent of history permeating the aisles
and lingering onto our lust-damp flesh.
The lights start to go out,
and we try to look inconspicuous
as we swim down against the
current of rushing, ramming souls.
We seek shelter.
We find it as we reach a dead-end
and our bodies slam, protected,
into the back wall.
My hands now belong on you, in you, over you.
Your tongue seems part of my neck. Your hands search.
Your legs embrace. Your breath burns.
Your skin and mine can't understand their boundaries
-- they're one blazing entity now.
The last light goes out.
I see heaven for a brief eternity,
behind the faint sparkle in your eyes,
as they tremblingly close.
Yes, I wanna play.

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