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i met him inside of a library 
on a rainy day in may. 
he wore all black
and was reading one of the classics. 
he reminded me of autumn—
brisk, cool, 
mysterious. 
his room, i imagined,
was filled with stacks of 
leather-bound books
and candles were scattered all around. 

(but we always imagine the impossible.)

he wrote poetry,
the kind that makes you want to
draw all the curtains
and curl up in your bed. 
he also played the guitar
(sometimes)
but never wanted to
in front of me. 
he wrote songs about his little brother,
who died a few years ago.

he was hurt and i was lost,
so we struggled through together. 
he wrote letters to himself

so i wrote letters to him.

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