bookstore

i tend to lust-

it started with
little things,
a flower
or pocket of knowledge,
and grew into stories,
a love song wriiten for-
it should have been-
me.
by now,
it's expansive.
i think about it
in the poetry section
of my local bookstore as i
let words wash over me
like water from a fountain
over my tongue
without ever swallowing.
caught in a sea of surplus
exposing your intimate scribbles
for my sensations
i remain
thirsty
not wanting to leave
but still fleeing into my own
canvas,
into fiction.

-colours flush