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Stock of books from an old bookstore,
Screaming coldness in the deepest winter.
Calming the head from missing hue,
Craving for the scent amidst the blue.
The silence is boisterous,
Making cuddles is gratuitous.
It's self-deprecating,
When you contest a thing,
A certain thing that's good at goodbyes.
Just let the sleeping dog lie,
Because we can't rewrite the stars,
It's already formed like scars.
Falling in love is impulsive.
Taking risks, fearlessly compulsive.
And sometimes, time cannot do the healing,
But it helps you to drown and fade the feeling.
Thus, let the fireflies fly,
Back into their night sky,
Allow those old books in safer,
To be found by the great keeper,
Give it to the wind,
To carry the smell of vanilla lignin,
And later or sooner,
You'll be found and kept forever as well.
