Rustles of an open book 
Accompany sighs of disgust--or contentment? 
He sits in a corner critiquing my existence: 
A pitiful plot; 
A conceivable climax; 
Or perhaps he marvels at the illustrious diction. 
This meritorious man whom I hate to love, 
Gives a positive review--or an act of sympathy? 
His face is difficult to ascertain. 
I wait to hear of the book's mental strain. 
Instead the book is ardently placed in my hand 
He simply says I'm glad dear, that you are my friend.