Of Books half-read and days Half-lived

I don’t know how many books I’ve only read the first page of, I’m kind of ashamed of it actually– like introducing yourself on a busy Baltimore street-corner in august when everyone is discovering somewheres. Introducing yourself only to turn back into the crowd and avert your eyes– like meeting a former elementary school classmate in McDonalds– bumping glances– not even passing hesitant hellos.

My unfinished books are as haunting as days that you wait for night to come– days where I live on the perhaps of countries I don’t speak the language of or the prospect of living out of purple backpacks with torn straps on the beach we sued to visit when I was 7 and 8 and 12 and 14.

I know I’d be lonely even though I say I want to be a hermit so I imagine you with me, I know that’s selfish and I don’t know if we’d be happy but I can promise I’d wait for night to come with you. I’d whisper the cliche “Times moves so fast… It’s moving so fast…” and you’d read my unfinished books and tell me I didn’t miss anything even if they were your favorites.

Regret turns us into street corners, rounds our edges like the arched eye-brows of each question mark. I don’t want to regret dusk. I have never regretted running away with you to July beaches and the ruffled necks of pine trees on Sunday nights when I feel like leaving all my books unfinished– you pick them up, turn the page and out loud until it is dark out the pursed lips of the window.

I repeat the cliche “Time moves so slow… It’s moving so slow.”

“And I love you.”