The Library of Warm Books

The ceiling holds a patch of weather. It drips a scent of crushed clover and copper. I trace my fingers along the binding of a blue volume, the paper radiating heat against my skin. The librarians sit at round tables, their chairs listing names where the time should be. I turn to a shelf of portraits; the glass over my face in the photograph registers only a wash of color, a faint grey smudge. The air smells of dust and old lemon polish. I stand in the aisle and pause. A quiet waiting settles, a temperature increase in the corner. The book on the third shelf vibrates against my hip.