the Bookstore

I enter the bookstore
like a prince
immaculate and decisive
I find Gibran
I find Albom and Neruda
I find my armchair
but I am simply wasting time
as good as the literature is
I glimpsed her already
and I am preparing
to strike.
But time passes
and one by one I put the books aside
I buy a coffee
I know she is over
in her corner
maybe she's waiting for me
I'll never know
I leave the bookstore
like a thief.