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Dusty light on paperback lines
Quiet steps between borrowed time
Pages breathe in a tender sound
Like secrets lost, then gently found
Coffee stains and underlines
Stories crossed with yours and mine
Nothing rushed, nowhere to go
Just one more chapter, soft and slow
Between the shelves, we disappear
In borrowed worlds, in second years
Your voice is low, the room is kind
Like jazz that drifts through open minds
If love is just a passing phrase
Let it live in quiet days
I’ll remember how it felt
Between the shelves
A piano hums from somewhere near
The ceiling lights like chandeliers
Your shadow leans on poetry
While fiction feels too close to me
Every glance a footnote line
Every smile, a subtle sign
No confessions, nothing bold
Just warmth in stories never told
Between the shelves, we disappear
In borrowed worlds, in second years
Your voice is low, the room is kind
Like jazz that drifts through open minds
If love is just a passing phrase
Let it live in quiet days
I’ll remember how it felt
Between the shelves
Maybe we are dog-eared pages
Left behind in quiet ages
Not the plot, but still a part
Pressed softly in the reader’s heart
Between the shelves, the moment stays
Longer than the words we say
Even silence seems to know
This is all we need to hold
So close the book, don’t say goodbye
This scene is ours, and that’s just fine
In every store, I’ll still find myself
Between the shelves
