Poetic License

I am not only a reader of people and cards, but of poems as well. How I love to lose myself in the words of those whose emotions speak more so then the written word itself.

I have one book in particular that is my favorite, its binding broken, its pages long worn, the words faded, many places memorized rather than read. It is this book that transports me to a place that I may visit, but never live.

I always reach for this book in particular when I am feeling cut off from the feelings of life. It happens often, never allowing anyone to get too close before I start backing away. Protection, I tell myself, much needed in my shadowed reality where no one else dares to tread.

And such was true today. With Charm napping, a nanny looking after her, I decided to explore my world of worded rence once more. My book and I had found ourselves at the springs, an area devoid of all but one. The man I had read for the day before, one I wasn’t certain needed the interaction of a certain seer.

He always seems to be engrossed in his notepad, this now left on his leg for me to see, though I tried not to look out of politeness, in case the data was of a personal nature. Personal or not, he held it so that I could see a networking of.. what appeared to be, to me, a maze of some sort. It was crossed with measurements and various notes. Perhaps he was going to build .. something.

He seemed interested in the book I still held possessively to my breast, pointing towards it, which I took to mean he wanted to see. “Poems.” Conversation didn’t seem to be either of our stronger gifts.

I handed the book out to him, he took it and turned away from me, as if he didn’t want me to see his inspection of my worn tome.

Today we each learned something about the other with not more than a single word exchanged. Many would find that odd. I however, find it .. strangely comforting.