It’s been a long time coming but here’s Shelf Life, my third spoken word.

I was in a library.
I'm always in a library.
And it just so happened to be,
That that day,
I could not find a book,
Not the right one anyway.
So I cursed!
Silently.

Well,
To be honest,
I had been searching for years,
But that day I was fed up,
And I was almost in tears,
And I cried.
But silently.

I mean,
I'd encountered a lot of good books;
I'd encountered a lot of bad.
There were sweet,
Soft
Crazy
Adventurous
Mysterious
Dreamy
Artistic
Romantic
Philosophical
Powerful
and Mad
And more!
There have been books you would wine and dine,
Once 
Twice
Thrice
But not a lifetime.
So I begged.
Of course, silently.

And after cursing,
Crying
Begging
Silently
Somehow I came to my senses,
Violently.
And that day in the library,
Leafing through a book,
I decided I would stop searching,
For the right one.
When the right book will come,
Then I will know,
Because I'll be left speechless, a few pages in,
Mouthing a silent:
'Woah.'

But goddammit!
I'm so silent,
So shy.
I will not know what to do.
If I don't do something right,
That book will slip right through,
My fingers and back on the shelf.
So I must pen a poetic prompt;
A rhapsodic reminder for a romantic roamer

And -
But,
The thing is,
I can't flirt with words,
And my awkward pauses should clear that up.
Although I can appreciate,
When it comes to this,
My mind decides,
To mess up.
So here's my try:

I felt your gentle words,
Punch me.
One by one.
And by the time,
That you were done,
I was breathless.

Your structure is intriguing,
One that I have never seen before,
And it wonderfully clicks with your wildflower flow,
Which is a musical masterpiece -
Lyrically divine.
The passion in the voice,
Sent a tingle down my spine.

Your moods, they vary,
Yet they strike,
Stunningly;
Each word put together,
Puzzling perfect poetry.
The tones in each setting,
Clever craftsmanship,
Of emotion interweaving,
With subtle sublime quip.

The language is an artwork,
Deserving of unbound praise;
Jumping off the pages,
It acts on its paper stage,
With imagery spellbinding,
It catches your eye,
In a crowd of delusion,
Sending you fluttering high.

I would look for flaws,
But I do not know,
How this works.
Maybe the others think they have,
You figured out,
All word for word.
Whether it's enjambment,
Or punctuated incident,
If you give me the time,
I will try to make sense,
Of your complicated rhyme,
Through a simplified lens.

And I have to admit,
Before I go further,
I would say the common three,
And claim the l-word for you.
But frankly, the truth is,
That is not something I can do,
For I do not understand it.
And I wish I did.
So should I not be the right one,
Know I will try,
And never quit.

So if you go back to that shelf,
And find another one right for you,
I'm sorry if my pages,
Badly misled you.
And I know we judge books by their covers,
And we may have done each other too.

But in dénouement,
Here's a simple truth:
I may not always be full of praise,
I may learn to criticize,
And I may lose my grasp on words,
And bring tears to your eyes.
Forgive me for this, oh please!
But the words that I can give,
Three or four that are immutable,
You are wonderful.

And there I have complete,
Quite a bit to say,
And here I am in this library,
Yet another day.
But one thing I can assure myself,
It will strike me violently,
So I would not miss it.
I sighed,
Silently.