Poet (unfinished)

one.

Libraries had always calmed me down.

There was something about the literature; the presence and smell of thousands of books along with the hushed sounds and authors' fingerprints left pressed into the wall. To know that you were surrounded by hundreds of alternate universes, sharing the space with people who wanted to escape to them just as much as you did. Endless stories and ideas all surrounding you like the walls of a house, comforting instead of overbearing.

It wasn't like I necessarily needed calming in that exact moment, though I could admit my anxiety was creeping up on me as the idea of interacting with others spun around in my mind.

This had all started because of my best friend, PJ. One day, after school, we'd been walking in town when we'd passed the library. There had been a sign reading "Poetry Club!" and that had been all he'd needed to decide to try and convince me to attend it. He knew I was a writer; he knew of my vocabulary and extensive at-home library and how much of my time was put into writing analogies that happened to rhyme; he knew I was a poet.

Somehow, my friend had managed to convince me to come. Considering he wasn't attending with me, I could have told him I was going and instead skipped, but something in my brain was telling me that I should try for once.

I'd never been one for socializing. I assumed it was because I had an artist's articulate brain, and usually, artistic people enjoyed remaining in their own heads instead of finding a way into other people's. It was too difficult to understand the way other people thought when you'd spent so long trying to figure it out about yourself.

And yet here I was, waiting for the time to attend the club. I had an unfortunate feeling that it would be all about sharing our creative writings and our favorite readings, and I felt a little tense at the idea, but I knew PJ really wanted me to try and get myself out there more.

I was currently reading Shakespeare's Othello; he wasn't a regular read for me, but I found that analyzing his characters while I sat unamused in a library could do me no harm. Despite how many of his themes were old fashioned, they were complex, and he'd done a lot for poetry.

My thoughts were interrupted as I realized someone was walking over. I didn't look up right away, simply allowing for the person to come to a stop in front of where I sat, my legs thrown over the side of the lounging chair.

"Nice choice," They said, and the voice was low; I assumed the person was a male. My eyes trailed away from the words beneath me, instead upwards so that my gaze landed upon a man. He looked to be a few years older than me, and in a split second I took in his appearance; dark, black hair that shone beneath the light, creating a blue sheen; scintillating eyes, glimmering with the soft colors of blue, green, yellow; pink lips, plump with health, tilted into a smirk. My eyes kept heading lower, scanning the stubble adorning his chin, the jean jacket below it placed above a grey cotton shirt, black skinny jeans hanging loosely off of his legs due to how thin he was. All the way down to white shoes, the glimpse of a sock covered with sharks visible due to how his jeans creased upwards on one side.

Hearts on a chalkboard lungs intertwined

"You like Shakespeare?" I replied, before he could question my unnecessarily long silence. My fingers slid the book shut, every fiber of my being holding my limbs back from shaking due to the stress of social interaction. Now you know that I wasn't kidding about the whole anxiety thing.

The man shrugged, his eyes finding mine no matter how much I was attempting to avoid eye contact. "Most of his stuff is repetitive, but he was a literary genius and all."

I liked the answer; it was similar to what I'd been thinking only minutes before. I nodded slowly, shooting the man a slight smile. I opened my mouth to say something more, but he spoke before I could.