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.
I pine.