She sits on the self, covered in dust and neglect,
As she waits for someone to brush her pages, run their fingers down her spine,
And open her to the very center and discover the wonders between ink and word
Captivated by the story she holds in her depth.
There is a difference to people who come in the morning
They are goal oriented, never straying from the task at hand,
For they always have more precious obligations later in the day,
So the morning is the only place they find solace,
But they can never linger long, for the sun can never stay hidden behind the clouds.
There are never two people in the afternoon,
For afternoons are lazy, high on heat and sex,
These people are always running from something,
Satisfying their needs on a quick fix or a craving that can never be fulfilled,
So they wonder with hazy eyes and clouded minds,
Falling into the sky as she fades from blue to violet and red.
Late at night is truly her favorite time,
For the people who wander in are the most peculiar of sorts,
And their stories are thrilling at the late hour,
She finds herself touched the most during the late hours,
From people who are captured by her cover art—
To those high on amphetamines and narcotics, their touch rough and promising,
She feels ravished and lightheaded as they skim through her pages
But alas, the sun always rises above the clouds,
And the temptation of the night readers fades with the morning dew,
So she is left atop the shelf once again, dusty, sticky and closed,
Waiting for the faded light to dull her shine,
Opening her to the darker enticements of the world outside the morning sun,
Eager to be read with passion. If only inside the darker moments of time.