There is a bookstore. A place I can go. A space all my own. Quiet like snow. And it smells like coffee, and cake, and all things good to eat.
Everyone is drunk on words as we weave ourselves inside the pages; not a whisper hushed.
And this is where I learned that everyone is alone. But, that we read to pretend we have something to hold onto when everything is so cold at night. It makes me wonder if you like to read, or pretend, or do anything for that matter. It surprises me how little I know about you, except that you are a musician of some sort.
And not even my mouth can say this.
I grab a napkin and pen, and pull my thoughts from the inside of my coat pocket.
My thoughts of what a shame it is you don't read the written word, or smell the coffee, or hold my hand.