Instead of eating lunch, you digest books.
I've watched you for some time now, hiding between pages, around the corners of shelves, in the midst of moldy books. I've been there the entire time, always watching, and always alert. Every day you've been here, with a turkey sandwich half to your mouth like a forgotten thought; a sentence with no end. Instead your eyes would dart across the page--frightful rabbits in their own right.
It is only you the librarians attend to. It is only you that their feet fly eagerly to awaiting spots where awaiting books sit patiently for them to find; only for you. You have that affect, though you speak rarely, and rarely make eye contact. Where as some such as you would be a ghost wafting in and out of a room, you light it up. You announce your presence though you say not a thing--though you are as quiet as can be. I know it is because you do not like attention.
I cannot explain how there is something about you that draws so many people to heartache, like a siren. You break all of their hearts, though you do not know that you do. You break them silently, a cold killer. You are that way, you know. You kill them with your disinterested gaze, in the way that you wish only for your books. You wish that way because to you, there are no friends but your books. You feel so alone, and so apart. You feel as if the world is too great. The world is too heavy, though it barely touches your shoulders.
It's funny, though. You don't know know how many people find interest in your silent laugh, in the slight smile of your small, thin lips.
You are withdrawn into yourself, and you don't branch out to any except for the ones that live in pages, and breath their own air separate from yours. Your friends are the pages; your lovers are those who do not exist, though you'd have plenty of both if you were to leave your world behind.
So many are reaching out to you, and you don't even seem to notice.