Boys Who Read

I’d like a boy who reads.

I’d like a boy that’s able to take me away into a journey, page by page, cover to cover. Glancing at me every once in a while when his pensive eyes get tired from glazing the pages of a paperback

I’d like a boy who reads.

I’d like a boy who likes the new-book smell and old-book smell just the same, one that understands the exhilaration of getting lost in the shelves, like a child in a toy store.

I’d like a boy who concentrates on the classics, his green tea fogging up his glasses,

and when he gets up to stretch, throwing me a smile and lending me a hand because we’ve both been on the hardwood floor for hours. He’d look me in the eyes and I’d know he’s happy I’m part of his reality.

I’d like a boy who reads.

I’d like a boy who is able to let me see the world through his eyes, telling me about his day through his soft-spoken voice, as if he were reading a page out of his autobiography. And I, the listener, would get lost in the mundane and while I’d stare at his ruffled hair, wish that I was the one keeping him warm, not his scarf, nor his coat.

I’d like a boy who reads.

I’d like a boy to fall in love with me, as much as the lovers in the novel he has in his hands, because he believes that the words he reads could be as real as he imagines it. Except, he’d believe that our love would be better than theirs because it has yet to be written.

And he likes things that aren’t yet written.

I’d like a boy who reads

because boys who read always question, always think, and are in peace.

I’d want to rummage through his hair like I do when I skim through the pages of his books, and I’d want him to do the same with me, but a little rougher.

I’d want him to feel as passionate with me as characters do when they reach the climax of their journey, and resolve it just the same.

I’d like a boy who reads

because a boy who reads will be absorbed in my writing, and what I write is mine, and mine to love, and he loves me.

I’d like a boy who reads.