Lost For Words

by Stephanie Butland

A Bookshop A bell over the door: a brassy, jangling clang. There should be no clock. Time is meaningless here. No book is without worth. Let there be a marbling of the light, refracted through old windows, to remind us that nothing is ever true. Here is all that you do not yet know. Everything is slightly crooked, except the lines of words on pages. Here is food. This place is crammed with what is unlooked-for. There should not be music, but there should not be silence. Fingers must not be shy. Touch spines. Turn pages. A door that no one has the key to is in the corner. Giggling. And little cries of ‘Oh!’ when something forgotten is found. A bookshop is not magic, but it can steal away your heart. The air is not like any other air. It has memory stirred through it. There is something here for you. All you need to do is choose it. That smell. You know. Patchouli. Honey. Salt and violets. And oh, the people. They must be forgiven their sins because they are here. A bookshop is not magic, but it can slowly heal your heart.