strwberrytae: namjoon birthday project | 03 | librarian!auThere’s a magical component that lies with

strwberrytae: namjoon birthday project | 03 | librarian!auThere’s a magical component that lies within a book. Something about walking into a bookstore or a library that draws you in. It catches your attention and devours your very being as you begin flipping through the pages. But there’s something else that can consume you - love.It wasn’t quite time for autumn but it was lingering just around the corner. The air around you struggled between wanting to embrace in the warmth still or basking in that crisp, cool air. The combination of the two was exhilarating in your stride. An old library came into view; stopping you almost instantly. It was a building that seemed to have been here for so long but you’ve never seen it before. Perhaps it used to be another storefront and now it’s been transformed into something else - something that lures you.As you stepped through the chipped white painted door, a little bell chimed. The smell of old books filled your nostrils but a hint of coffee in the distance. There was no one else in the small building - no one to greet you. Assuming it was open, you carried on to glance at the books anyways. Your fingertips grazed binding after binding until finally you stumbled across a section of poetry. A collection of E.E. Cummings caught your attention, so you picked it up and opened to a page at random.somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyondany experience, your eyes have their silencein your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,or which i cannot touch because they are too nearYou whispered the words to yourself. Although you knew the poem by heart, you were unable to stop reading aloud. The whisper was loud enough for a tall man to hear from a bookshelf he was organizing nearby. He stepped out from his place to observe you. The man knew the poem and recognized it right away. Your voice was so soothing to him. As you read, it was like a melody to his ears - like a siren drawing him to the shore.your slightest look easily will unclose methough i have closed myself as fingers,you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose -The man stood near you softly without alarm and parted his lips to continue.or if your wish be to close me, i andmy life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,as when the heart of this flower imaginesthe snow carefully everywhere descending;His voice didn’t startle you as it may have anyone else as he began joining you in speech. His presence was comforting and warm. Brown hair, light honey skin, and full pink lips that made your heart skip a beat. The two of you carried out the words of the poem; neither of you needing a script to recite.nothing which we are to perceive in this world equalsthe power of your intense fragility: whose texturecompels me with the color of its countries,rendering death and forever with each breathing(i do not know what it is about you that closesand opens; only something in me understandsthe voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)nobody, not even the rain, has such small handsAs the man said the words that began sending chills up and down your spine, he inched closer and closer to you until he was only a breath away. His hand reached up to engulf your smaller hand - slowly easing the book back down in its original place. Not once did you break eye contact but you couldn’t even if you wanted to. Silence filled the air once the last words were spoken, gentle smiles easing on your faces. His hand remained on yours without either of you realizing until the bell chimed once again - neither of you letting go of the other. An elderly woman walked in for her weekly visits.“I’m sorry,” the man began, “I don’t mean to be so forward.” His voice was deep and smooth like velvet. You looked up into his brown eyes as the shade of rose blossomed your cheeks.“I don’t mind. That was…beautiful,” you said almost in a trance. You were unsure of the right words to say; as if you were under a spell you didn’t want to break. Perhaps beautiful wasn’t the right word but it didn’t matter in this moment because it truly was. He gave you his name and it echoed in your head as if your heart was desperately trying to keep from forgetting - although it wouldn’t be possible. A name that you somehow knew would purr from your lips beyond this day as he would say yours like the melody that he fell in love with the first moment he heard your voice.Namjoona/n: from the poem, “somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond -” by e.e. cummings -- source link

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