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He doesn’t read much, and doesn’t understand how she can devour all those books… where do they go inside her? But it doesn’t really matter, does it?
There is a constant blinking bewilderment in his eyes
as if he cannot understand why she would rather
devour books than cook him dinner.
“addict” he labels her even as he
watches a movie on his laptop for the millionth time.
at night even her skin feels like pages under his palm
and he wonders if ink will show up where he has touched her
–he would prefer if it did not, for it scares him
how she seems to assimilate all those stories inside her
jangling in her breath like the loose change in his pocket.
it is as if her mind is someplace he is banned from entering;
a consciousness filled with the make believe.
somehow she has travelled the world without him.
this is her mystique.
accompanying her to the library while she picks out her books,
he picks one up and inhales
“nice old book smell, huh?” he asks her,
and even though she knows he will never read a word
she falls in love with him all over again.
Image source: a still from Love Per Square Foot
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