Bound In Pink

Bound In Pink

They said books were only paper and glue,

yet these are stitched with something softer.

Ribboned shut like secrets kept for years,

stacked gently as if they breathe.

Petals lean against their spines,

roses listening to every silent page.

Ink sleeps beneath blush-coloured covers,

waiting for a hand brave enough to open it.

There is a story in the weight of them,

in the way they rest one upon another.

Love layered carefully, chapter by chapter,

no rush, no tearing at the corners.

A bow sits proudly at the summit,

not loud, not begging for applause.

It knows what it holds inside,

heartbeats pressed between pages.

I think of the girl who once believed

romance was only a word in a book.

Now she understands it is binding,

it is choosing to stay on the same page.

Each spine carries a quiet promise,

of evenings folded into memory.

Of hands brushing in lamplight,

of letters written and never sent.

These books do not shout their beauty.

They glow in rose and gentle cream.

They remind me that love, when treasured,

is something we wrap carefully and keep.

If ever the world grows loud and careless,

I will return to this small pink tower.

Where stories are soft yet unbreakable,

and every ending is held with grace