I told my friends I wanted to love a girl who was literary,
so I pulled novels from shelves in bookstores, rubbed
their spines and indexes all over my arms and neck and 
waited for that new book smell to work its magic. 

I got some looks, but none of the cupid struck kind 
and I’m not allowed at those shops anymore either, nor
the library across the street.

But lady, I’m an easy read. I just want a few mentions
in the cliffnotes of your unabridged biography, somewhere
between your triumphs and the falling-in-love-with-me action.

Let my shoulders be your bookends, no dropping behind the bookcase.
Flip back the corner of my title page, watch my adventure and mystery
plant plot points between your heartbeats and my character flaws
and I’ll open up like daises under your morning suns.

At the very least, read the back cover out loud, with some enthusiasm