Mandooks, haunter of libraries, buyer of books. I wrote this poem just before I went to see Little Women, which made me cry my literal heart out. Jo March owns my soul, Amy March is perfect. (Timothée Chalamet kinda looks like a dumpster rat, but in a good way.)
Gleaming, smooth, Unscathed, perfect. I yearn to reach out Stroke, touch, Parse as I lean in Your most hidden secrets. You are the only sin I can’t resist, The one beauty My eyes keep searching. But my pockets are empty And my home is full Of the likes of you, Waiting, forgotten, For a second glance. Nevertheless, I pine.