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He was a poet. He was daylight, the sun in my face. I held him on a pedestal. He hated me for it, because he always told me "June, you're holding me up too high and I'm afraid my neck will snap on the way down." When he told me this, I didn't understand what he meant at first. I had to interepret my way through his words, like a sudoku. 

I first met him on the subway, furiously scribbling away in this small leather book he had. He was sat two seats beside me, and smelt like dust. He had horrible posture, long and thick eyebrows, with multiple holes in his shirt. He looked like he hadn't eaten in weeks, which tortured me. Whether or not that was on purpose was beyond me; He was comely. It was late at night, weirdos surrounded the area, creating an atmosphere that was eary but exciting. I felt like I was teasing him by constantly trying to look at his writing, and not trying to hide it. He eventually noticed, looking up at me. He curled his back into a straight position and slumped down into his seat, closing the book. He threw into the seat between us.

"If you want to read it so bad, go ahead and take a look."

I was thrown off guard and I could feel my face going red hot. He glared at me, saying nothing. He seemed like he was waiting for me to pick up the book and critique it, ready to argue every flaw I pointed out. I got a lick of courage and slowly put my hand down to his book, placing it on top. I didn't open it, nor did I pick it up. I just touched it. It was warm and soft as if it had been in the sun for too long. 

"Go ahead, open it up. Read what's inside. You really wanted to know before, why are you so hesitant now?"

I felt like he was threatening me with his writing, taunting me and killing me with words. 

I picked up the book and slowly let the pages flip till I felt ready to read the right one. I let it fall into a page that had obviously been opened multiple times, due to it's slack. The writing was messy. It was like a child had written it. I breathed in and out, preparing myself for what was inside. As I read his the scribbled lines, it didn't read like a mess. It was poured out into a beautiful flow, bending and curving at the right moments. I looked up at him, and without words to describe it any better, my thoughts jumped out of my throat.

"This is fantasitc. Do you do this professionally? Because if you don't, you should! Wow, like, this is actually incredible. I'm in awe, seriously."

And then he snatched the book out of my hands, as if he was offended.

The End

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