The Happiness Chronicle: Addicted

The smell of new books 20151207_170112 (3)
Brings a smile to my face
My eyes scan each page
Like it is a race to the end
I don’t pretend to be the
Kind of busy at weekends

Which guarantee passes
There’s a reason I have
Glasses, eyes strained
From hours of floating
Words, like inked birds
Drifting from print to mind

I am kind to their covers,
Like the mother they never
Knew they had, and I only
Ever get mad when handed
A shopping list in the middle
Of confrontation, the walk

To the train station is fueled
By determination and as soon
As my feet leave the ground
I am right back without a
Sound spectating, and making
Tutting noises under my breath

At the foolish decisions they
Have left sanity behind on
Their long journey home and
My bones have words carved
In them, like the epitaph to
My own journey for others

To read when I finally reach
That stage of sleep and that’s
How they’ll know of this habit
Of mine, of scooping chunks
Of time and putting it aside for
When I need my imaginary friends

Over my real ones, until they are
All bundled together under the same
Terms, it is worth ever second plunging
Into the unknown and each noise of
Page turning is the sound of home.

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