He's the kind of boy

With calloused fingers
this boy trails poetry
down the length of spines.

[His whispers
smell like lemon drops,
and taste of sweet poison.]

He carries a tattered
notebook in one hand,
and an ink pen
in the pocket
closest to his heart.

[The paper romantic
who warms lonely
December nights.]

His dreams are bigger
than skylines.
Too much for just one.