Run your tongue along that rippled pad,
perhaps again, your thumb and index finger to match.
Slide your palm down the crease, the place when you last
put me down. Spread me wide and gaze upon me. Look longingly,
would you know my secrets? Would you know the depths of my
pages, or simply caress the vellum that you hold, now,
between your fingers. You hold the world.
Tangle your fingers in my sheets, you've got ten fingers,
You can probably mark all the good spots. Would I outrage you?
In my world, I make the rules. But I suppose you could put me
down, again, perhaps on your rigid lap as you search your brain
for answers. Don't you know they are held within my binding?
Thread as long as I, reaching through all of me to the other side,
making sure I do not fall apart at an inopportune time, say, the middle
of a chapter.
Oh yes, you will look at all of my words, take each chapter at length.
You can categorize me, make me safe enough for you. Hide me among my brethren, still mourning their lovers' touch. We are not enough for each other, though shelves we may fill. The wilting covers of those well-read, threadbare and faded, titles long ago worn away, gather dusk as you would keep us, stacked away.