I think, in an ideal world,

She will be small and lonely, round glasses on a nose

Lenses the thickness of coke bottles and

Hair as fickle as sunshine and rain

And she will creep into the store, searching

Her hands careful on the door so the bell doesn’t ring

She will breathe in the smell of canvas magic, her heavy shoulders suddenly buoyant

Her fingers will tickle the spines of her friends as if to say

Wake up - it’s time to tell your stories

She will stop to pick up the lone paperback, forgotten on the floor

Flooded with empathy for inanimate objects

Hair falling in her face, she will curl up, spines digging into her spine

Poetry prominent, reality receding

She will revel in the comfort of words that feel like her own

And maybe –

She will make a new friend