Bookshop on the Corner of Hall and Abbot

He sifts through
The forgotten and cold
Bindings, of those stories
About phantoms, and false realities

I lay about this
Half-composed narrative,
Letters in paragraph form
Dialogues and apostrophes

His spellbound nature
Is captivated by this
Romance, is it fiction,
These facts resonate

My characters fall into
Motives and devices
However contrived, they are
Not without a sort of reason

As pages turn into the dark
And words blend into impassive blocks
Of meaning, his impressions are left,
Wanting of the glimmering truth

There is a resemblance here,
I admit, as the final pages settle,
Of things we won't admit
Or understand, not for lack of wanting

His eyelids stutter, and close
Upon the final words,
An affect of epiphany, rather,
Than a reading on the clock

Are our lives any less fiction,
When we turn to these means,
To grasp at our fleeting
Realization of these hearts' plot