I love the space between the books on a shelf.
mere slivers of illustrations and thin jackets dividing massive worlds infinite in a delicate wonder. the way they can turn their face against the walls with their names etched into their spines. like the space between estranged lovers sharing a bed and blanket is as grand as the space between stars and the black holes holding them together. the way our teacups sit across from one another in the booth by the window of cafe reggio on macdougal street like the beat poets who once sat there. or the space between the grass and our feet in hyde park while we drank wine from the bottles, pairing them with the appropriate cupcakes reciting passages of shakespeare and company, transfiguring ourselves into everything we ever fell in love with.
the space where our hands almost touched. the way the songs humming from your record player kissed my skin while tickling yours. the space where we should’ve felt eternity from my lungs to yours.
it was the chandelier in my bathroom. a relic of past lovers who found me in the clawfoot tub of the Chelsea Hotel. The way David found his queen, when he decided to love a woman more than a god.
I love the space between books on a shelf. The same space you found me in my sadness. And loved me for it.