Why poets are lonely

Would it be strange 

if I told you your hair 

smells of this old bookstore 

don't take this the wrong way 

I've found treasure this way 

before

unconsciously led by my nose 

I've followed that scent 

and where it always goes

to a place I've already been 

and like your hair 

I bury my face there

my hand gentle with the spine

there are others there

I'm aware

but I must say

I'm greedy with my finds

bound but broken

I hold you close

at that moment 

you're all mine 

I open you

my finger runs your calligraphy curves

at the beginning of each line

I'm not here for substance 

tired of mass production 

I wanted a one-of-a-kind

the wear and where you've been

makes you interesting 

rips slips and tiny stains

that come with time

I love not knowing 

what is missing 

and long to discover what you hide

So here I stand 

with groceries in hand 

lost in my mind 

so many times 

before 

wondering 

would it be strange

if I told you your hair 

smells of this old book store