There is a bookstore. A place I can go all on my own. Quiet, and clean, and full of solitude. And it smells like coffee, and cake, and all things good to eat.
Everyone is there, picking and scanning, getting drunk on words; not a whisper hushed.
And this is where I learned that everyone is lonely. But, that we read to know we are not alone.
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.