Earlier this week I was passing through a small arcade in town when a young woman caught my eye. Relax, this isn’t going to transcend from blog post to me waxing lyrical with poetry*. What caught my attention, and even had me double back when my legs had carried me two stores down, was what was in her hands. Among the sea of people sitting in (socially distanced) groups in the cafe with their heads down, scrolling numbly on their phones, she sat alone with one of the biggest books I had ever seen.

Reading.

No phone in sight.

I’ve seen more unicorns in the wild than I’ve seen this.

It struck a cord deep within the very fabric of my being. In a world so fixated on having to get out and socialise, climbing the walls from the lock downs we are enduring thanks to the pandemic, it swelled my heart with joy to see a fellow traveller, someone else who slips from this place into another world between page and ink.

While I was on my way to an appointment and had no time to spare, I knew I had to reach out. Back I walked. Between time constraints, wearing a mask and the fact she, like most readers, probably didn’t want to be interrupted from the story, there wasn’t much I dared to do. Imagine if some random guy in a mask came in off the street and approached you in the heart of a busy cafe. Imagine now you’re halfway through the scene where the protag is about to realise insert world altering plot twist here.

Exactly. Dangerous ground.

Regardless, I went. Dropped my business card on her table and smiled the best I could through dyed cloth.

Then I walked away.

Not a word said.

Thinking of all the words I could have used.

Perhaps most critically

“What’s the name of that book?”

So here’s to you dear Reader. I hope my card turns out to be useful in some way. Perhaps a bookmark, or fuel to light your fire in this oddly cold weather. Regardless, I thought I’d share a poem I wrote for Tango in a Teacup. It’s on my Instagram too if that’s your thing.

*I lied.

I know not where she goes
Between ink and page
She travels she is not here
To forests and seas that don’t exist
I know not where she is
Planeswalker of the words
Present or gone matters little
To the flow of the river
This place between page and ink
Past her skin past her house
Past all that is
She goes and is gone and flies or swims or cries or lies or burns or plays games with kings
I know not but she has left
For a world between madness and dream
She travels like skin between sheets
Yet has not moved from in front of me.