(i’m) Writing In The Margins (for you)

I must smell like coffee

Hours and hours of dust and beans

Mixed in with clean sweat

Hints of tea and spice

The rough cologne of an honest days work

Faded and tired, yet true

But he smells like books and dusty cloth

The heavy scent of untouched archives

Layered like pages over human warmth

A little too much time in

A little too empty of spaces would do that

Regardless, he belongs

And it is one thing, to see his handwriting

And it is another, to know his stories 

It feels like we should be chapters

In someone else’s book

A really good one, too

Worth coffee stains on the corners

Worth haphazard writing in the margins

Worth reading again and again and again

For the pure life of it