The scooch and screech of chairs against the scuffed, aging hardwood floors echo throughout the shelves. Students coming and going, reading spines and flipping through pages, the library is lively this Saturday morning. Much to my surprise, I find my stand alone desk isn’t occupied in the Stacks and I’m truly honored. My private island. All alone, it faces a bare brick wall where I’ve etched his name over time with a safety pin from my jacket. I find myself spending more time staring at the brick than any words on a page. Study literature? How when he’s every line of a poem I need? How when he’s a better read than any book I own? I observe, analyze, every freckle, fold, flaw on my demigod. The way the lines crease around his eyes when he laughs, how he uses his whole body as he roars. The way the muscles and veins flex and protrude when he’s building or sculpting, grabbing a hold of me. How smooth his peanut butter skin, the small contrast against mine as we lay side by side. The sounds he makes in his sleep, the way his chest rises and falls as he cuddles up against me while I read. Not any chemistry or philosophy book holds my attention. I hear the campus clock bellow a new hour, jerking me away from my trance. I relax in the stiff seat and open to page 59 in my lit book and try to study authors of the 1940’s. I can study him later.