His fingers was dripping poetic justice and his heart was covered in dictionary pages. I remember how he compared the works of Dickinson to how the stars shine in the night sky. I loved the way his eyes sparkle and his heart becomes frantic whenever he talked about the beauty of literature.

But not once when we were "together" did his eyes twinkled when he talked about me. Not once did he looked at me in fascination like how he looked like when he read The Tale of Two Cities. Not once did the hairs on his neck stood when I showed him the poems I made for him. And not once did he offered a word for me.

Beautiful, fascinating, ethereal.
Those are the words he use to describe literature. Those are also the words he never used to describe me.