The Paperback Boy
He loses himself in others' words every day.
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.