the discreet way he creeps into the lines, the way you can never tell he is the saviour,
and the word weaver will tell you, instead, about the odd handsome way his hands were long and shapely, and the way he rolled his r’s to make people laugh.
On page ninety four, she tells you he loves vinegar, and lives alone with a black spaniel, doesn’t have dinner at night.
You will wait until chapter eight to know his name, the colour of his hair, and that death doesn’t break this man down.
It was my favourite story, but I have turned the last page,
I can go back to the pages I’ve already read,
but he will smile each time, and never save me.