I love to look across at my bookshelves.
I don’t just see slabs of paper wrapped in pretty pictures,
or titles on spines acting as identities.
I see doorways.
I see vines of words reaching out to tangle around my arms and drag me in,
whether to another world entirely,
or to a part of my own brain that I’ve never greeted before.
Even after I close the book
once my ticket there is spent,
I know I can use it as a wedge to return to that place.
A place where I will always find a home
or a friendship,
a truth, a discovery