Poem: In a bookstore

Suddenly, in a bookshop, I
nearly howl.

Struggling to remember what
you smelled like (no, not the
standard musk, deep forest or
manly cologne).

On some days you smelled of
Air. Sometimes of grass (the
kind that no one smokes). Even
my soap.

So I decide, that to remember
you, I would pick a smell. Like
the spines and fresh pages of
very new books.

In the bookstore, I inhale deep.
A high. Perhaps from glue. Or
from this new memory of you.

I leave without buying. I have
buried my face in a few books.
For tonight, this smell of paper
will have to do.

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8 Responses to Poem: In a bookstore

  1. Anjali says:

    Hi Neha,

    I am came here through mumbaigirl’s blog. This poem is lovely!

    Best wishes,


  2. Ankur says:

    Brilliance out of pain! At night, the face is buried in books so that the new memory is embedded firmly and does not trickle away in the mundane?


  3. Yashita says:

    Oh I loved this 🙂


  4. Shefaly says:

    I am guessing Waterstone’s? 😉


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  6. Anon2 says:

    A very lovely poem – perhaps one of your best.


  7. elizabeth says:

    this is beautiful, Neha–thank you.


  8. Vijesh says:

    Nice and beautiful write. I loved it. 🙂


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