The bookstore man

“I am for anyone,” he said. I saw it, I heard it.

Then he began to tell his story, about how he moved from one embrace to another, from one meeting to the next.

About how he comforted them all without ever failing. He said that those women fell in love with him.

At times, he mocked them, calling them too easy. Without realizing that it was his kindness that made them so.

That simple things and the honesty he showed stirred a maternal instinct, as well as the little girl within those women.

They wanted to protect him, and at the same time to be close to him, to cling to him.

I listened again as he spoke about many people, about many things.

And then I felt the loneliness there. A long breath lingered between pauses in conversation.

There were restless eyes, looking everywhere. There was discomfort, an uneasiness within his soul.

He was searching for something, between me, between those women, between the past.

Like a thick book left open, he let his thoughts spill out. Yet like books that are too thick, he was still choosing which parts to reveal.

I know that loneliness gnaws at his nights, devouring his tired body.

In my heart, I pray that he may be found easily, by whoever can make his heart crowded.