FicWad

A/N So I came up with this idea at the- you'd never guess- library.

This has a crap ton of poetry in it. Have fun.

Ryan's POV
-

STRANGER! If you, passing, meet me, and desire to speak to me, why should you
not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?

Walt Whitman

I'm curled up in the same chair that I have claimed since I was young, rereading poetry books and comprehending them in my own way. Isn't that what poetry is about? That's what Whitney, the librarian, said when I was ten. I still believe her eight years later.

Some are so blunt and are taken literally, however. Just like most people. I, personally, have to remind myself that I am not one of those. I occasionally twist my words, making people think and leaving them with a confused glare on their face.

In a poem by Langston Hughes, well, I feel like it was written by Dr. Seuss. The text is a good example of what I'm referring to when it comes to... more normal people.

I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.
I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.

But it was cold in that water! It was cold!

But Dr. Seuss was more clever than that.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't bother finishing the rest of the poem.

Good luck to anyone who's willing to come up with an alternative meaning. I have.

I may be a little weird when I say literal text bores me.

Not only that, but my own thoughts themselves bore me. It's not like I'm going to waste my time here thinking [/"The words we create within the hours of our plain lives reflect the major part of us that remains unseen"/ just so I can interpret my own words. No thanks.

I see everyone sitting calmly in their seats, finally deciding to give my eyes and brain a rest after memorizing a few more stanzas. They settle on a guy who is sitting far back in his chair, holding a book that contains all of Thomas Hardy's poems. Thomas Hardy's poems are known to be quite dark when taken literally- aka the only way to interpret most of them. I'm sure there are a few where he kills a man just because he didn't like him. Yes, I'm curious as to what attracted the reader to that book. I've seen him around, reading his usual murder mysteries and, dear lord, romances.

But lately, he's been reading poetry.

This guy has been coming here for a while also, sitting at a table with his backpack right next to him as well as a pile of books.

With the poem by Whitman repeating itself in my head, I approach him with my own books waiting for him to stare back at me. He finishes the poem, then looks up at me with smudged red glasses and dark brown eyes. Least serial-killer-y if one would ask me. I assume I'm safe.

"Hey," I greet in a hushed tone, the guy looking right back at me. "Hardy's stuff... it's a little intense don't you think?"

"Yeah," he agrees, putting the book on the table. "What brings you here?"

"Whitman."

He stares at me for a moment. As if to go back in time in his head to retrace all of the poet's works.

"Why should you not speak to me, why should I not speak to you..." The dark toned guy says, smirking to himself. "You wanted to speak to me, I'm Brendon."

"Hey Brendon, I'm Ryan." I nod. "I've honestly seen you around often, but never seen you with a poetry book."

I wait for his face to turn a light pink.

It never does.

Brendon picks the skin on his fingers, then leaning on the table studying my face. His dark hair looks a little messy from the rain he had to walk through to get here. I assume he lives close.

"You should see the books I have at my apartment. A whole stash." He points. "Shel Silverstein and all."

I laugh. Super literal. What else could you expect from a book for kids in primary school? "Even I still have those books lying around. My mom used to read them to me." I say. A sudden hole in my stomach.

"Mine too. 'The Giving Tree' still makes me cry." His voice raises in partial excitement, his face finally changing a different color from his pale face.

I try not to choke up now with all of the old memories. "The one... with the two people- the two people with bags over their heads never finding each other. Yeah, that one. I still get emotional." I brush my messy hair out of my face and Brendon's eyes catch mine.

"I feel like the visuals made it even worse." He covers his eyes for a second, bringing his sleeves up to his palms and rubbing over them.

"I haven't opened one of those books since I was nine years old." I say, feeling slightly nostalgic.

Brendon raises his eyebrows and stands up. "Let's." He motions me to follow him through the children's aisle, and I feel a bit out of place. "Here we go."

He sits on the floor with his back against a shelf, motioning me down with him. We sit close together, elbows and hips touching ever so slightly.

We flip through the pages, laughing, feeling nostalgic, wishing we were back in that time. We pass both of our favorites, deciding the last one to be "Where the Sidewalk Ends".

"You have a really nice reading voice," I say as Brendon finishes. "Even when you're whispering."

"Yeah, thanks. I do practice my reading voice alone in my room sometimes, you got a better voice for it though." he answers.

I grin, taking the book and putting it back on the shelf behind me.

"You don't look like the type that voluntarily reads poetry."

"Well I'm more of the type that secretly checks the books out and reads them at 2AM." Brendon counters, creasing his eyebrows and smiling at me as he stands up. I quickly decide that I like looking at his smile. He probably tries really hard to keep his teeth white. "Besides, I figured I'd bring out the skill to try to get a cute guy's attention. And well, well, well, here we are."

Now I'm really brushing, so much that I have to turn my head. But some part of me makes me look back at that smile.

I take pride on being blessed to look at the new face reflecting it's light on me. There. I said it.

"Are you scared people will judge you like they judge me or something?" I mutter, "'A heart in half is chaste, archaic; But mine resembles a mosaic.'"

That silences him for a minute, him just taking in my quote.

"Would you, by any chance, let me take your shattered, colorful heart out to the movies one of these days?"

I nod, knowing this particular man, who takes things just as literal as Hughes, may be just the right choice for me.

-

I was bored.

Sorry. It's 1AM.