I fell in love this weekend.
It's as if a lightning bolt of joy struck it's electric burst through my heart.
I'm giddy inside, my pulse is quickened, and it feels like my insides -my gut, my heart again- are all quivering.
Sir Thomas Moore's poetry, all together in a short, pocket-sized antique. Crisp gold painted edges on the pages and yellowed, sweet smelling paper underneath. I knew I wanted it. I prayed to the spirit of literature because I knew what such a thing was worth, and I did not have that worth. Still, I wanted those words I'd never spoken, read or memorized to grace my lips in silent mouthing. It was a love like no other I'd known because of my youth, friend or family, man or woman. I wanted to beg for that book to come home loosely wrapped in my sweaty palms.
But my love wasn't attainable.
I didn't even have eight whole dollars to my name, and the book would cost me thirty five.
Money kills me sometimes.
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