one of the last great bookstores

I still wanted to keep my appointment with you today, despite my wallowing in the pit of angst,
and I'm glad I did.
Cedar shelves and paper pages smell amazing—it reinstates something.

You are unassuming
and when you reach out, it's direct--like the only beam of light you emanate is focused on that one person.
You want to help.

It's been a long time since I truly felt at home in a place like this.
I found poems like lighters full on fluid
and zines like magnets,
and you took notes, like a guide through this potential side-hustle-inquiry of mine.
I appreciate you for that.

I can't believe they served cider and beer at the cafe.
You bought a snickerdoodle for me--it tasted like home as a child--
and we didn't stop talking the entire time we were sitting down.
Your eyes are like earth and also like branches with a soft sunset behind them.
Your eyes
never leave mine when we're talking
and I don't know if I'm used to that,
but it's re-teaching me what it means to hold a gaze properly,
carefully.

You dream of going home when this is all done.
You make an effort to be close and connect.
Add those two together and I
am gonna have a hard time when we graduate.

I bought one of the zines and a book of poetry that mentions a city of glass,
and maybe it's the alcohol behind my eyes,
but I all of a sudden feel fine about him.
Even though you are strictly off-limits,

I feel fine about him,
because you're a safe fantasy:
    Nothing will ever happen with you,
    and by the time I am ready to be open again,
    I will be able to shift my gaze.

Your taste in sound helps a bit...or is it the opposite?
Maybe I should still be careful when I think about you,
because he also started out as a safe fantasy.

I need to complete my research assignment.

You are a good person. You are good.

I will be fine.