The Paperback Boy

he liked the weight of a book in his hands,

the sturdiness and solidness of words

compiled and condensed and contained,

myriads of journeys to take and explore,

all in the glorious flipping of pages.

his ink-stained fingers told of long nights

where he would pore over well-loved tomes,

their spines cracked and pages creased

from affection littered upon them in sessions

night and day and all the moments between.

he loved the classics and the modern rom-coms,

the biographies of dead men and women alike,

and all the fantastical stories where stars lived,

heroes made the earth’s beasts tremble, and

gods of made-up religions graced the sphere.

his favorite place was the bookstore right

before it closed for the night, when he would

run his hands over the shelves and wonder

just what stories awaited in the collections

of real life, horror, romance, so much more…

he bought books to put on his shelves,

but he also gave books as gifts, each one

tailored to his favorite people, the ones

who shook their heads and tittered

when he called himself a bibliophile.

his name would never be imprinted

alongside titles or on fresh paper—

but it was its own reward to know

that he spread stories to the world

just by sharing his favorite stories.