reading in between the lines much?

You intercept me at the office, pushing a book in my hands. Frank O'Hara. "You can borrow it for the weekend."

(I don't recall ever asking to borrow anything.) Thank you through a mouth full of apple chunks and broccoli in my teeth and you've left as quickly as you came while I spend the rest of the afternoon trying not to crack the book open.

Frank O' Hara. It's midnight and I'm indulging in the comfort of my bedsheets and I'm waist-deep in poetry. Soaking and wading. An analyst, picking up each word and turning it in the palm of my hand and examining it in the light, feeling it, rolling it around and tasting it in my mouth to decipher meaning and uncover layers and angles.

It might be Frank O'Hara I am reading but I wonder if you've secretly meant it to be you that I'm indulging in on this night.

I'm reading love letters.