The anatomy of a book

Advika Maheshwary

Jul 17

1 min read

On the shelf, it sleeps,

A pristine, glossy weight.

Its rigid spine unbroken and proud

Its sepia-toned cover whispering tales

I take it in my hand. It sighs.

A snap, then a rustle, pages crackling.

They flutter, thin and fragile.

Every deckled edge reveals more to a story.

The scent, like a vanillic ghost,

an earthy lullaby,

It’s touch,

Velvety spine and a fibrous feel,

Crisp with ink, yet warped and brittle

Tattered at dog-eared corners

Splayed open on my lap,

Sharp, vivid words remain,

Savoury and bitter-sweet

I lose myself and drift away.

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