Used bookstore

Vast shelves filled books line the walls. 

Each one filled with smells, notes, smudges and stains; hints of their owners.

Here a paper, slipped between pages; an envelope, yellowed with age.

There is no address, no label, no name; the thickness hints of the contents. 

Like the books themselves; a treasure to open, a mystery to solve. 

Fingers worry the seal, hesitant to spoil sweet possibilities.

Curiosity loses to wonder today.  

A wybble, 100 syllables, not counting the title.