In the Library

I could imagine him
paging through every tome,
his intelligent blue eyes
chasing lines across pages.
I wonder if he knew
I followed him here,
peeking around the bookshelves,
removing just one book
so I could see through the inch-wide
void it left.
I was never brave enough
to tap him on the shoulder
and ask him
something, anything,
to make meaningless small talk.
Does he know
that when you lay a book flat,
take two of the center pages,
and curl them in toward the spine,
it makes a heart?
But you can’t find love
only in books.

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