Old Mahogany

By Poulami Ghosh

Sitting in the library,

letting the coldness seep through me,

I sit there, just sit there, without actually shivering as my mind races and my heart roasts on a dull fire.

The wooden bookshelves, old mahogany, smooth, musky,

distinct, looming, just like you,

surround me on all the sides.

I can see through the shelves

unlike with you.

I can see the treasure it holds

and I'm sure it's the same with you;

everything stuck together, a broth of different worlds.

I can spot a book in one of the shelves, exactly in front of me,

old, frayed and xanthic.

I can almost smell the old book smell;

lopsided, resting upon thinner books

seemingly unapologetic and swell.

The pages, like your ribs, jutting out,

like you again, looking beautiful ever more.

There you sit, amongst a pile of just some books

lopsided, heavy with things I want to know,

almost threadbare, almost, but still holding together marvellously.

Why you just sit there,

enclosed in all your glory?

When I so want to crack open the glass,

pull you out,

trace my fingers around, every word, every page and

devour you all bit by bit.

Why do I look for you everywhere?

I fail myself, I fail all workings of reason,

then suddenly, I see, on the very shelf written

‘Classics – do not open without permission.’

By Poulami Ghosh