He makes tea when he tries to have 
conversations with himself. They never
end the way he wants them to. 
Instead he leaves the world
for crinkling leather books,
tries to draw in coffee-stained notebooks. 

I don’t think he knows that there are other 
people like him,
who love the sound of clicking typewriters,
who sit in cafés to listen to rain,
who spend hours in libraries and bookstores
just because they love the feel
of literature. 

I don’t think I know that there are other people
like me,
people who read poetry to feel something
and love and live and die,
people who press wildflowers 
into the pages of books
because then they can look back
on beauty
and see that it
does
last.