You exposed your collection of prose.
Ashamed, you closed the closet door.
I understood then,
intelligence is uncool.
You told stories of your travels with animation.
Beliefs, religion, needles and sorrows -
alphabets traced your lips and
secrets spilled down your chin.
I stared in a volatile wonder,
thinking to myself that I should really leave.
It's late, and I can't afford to be
just another book in your library.