Hard cover, soft pages.

You are a book that doesn't fit in my pocket,

I can't just take you wherever I go.

You are a book that I keep misplacing,

that I sometimes have trouble finding when I find time to read.

You have, that smell, of cracked spines and yellowed pages,

yet your ink is fresh

and I worry about marring your perfect words,

jumbling a sentence of yours with a misplaced touch,

turning couplets into thumb prints

and, okay, maybe you don't smell exactly like a library

but the olfactory sensation's result is the same

and I can't breath deep enough.

I've never been good at starting from the beginning

and now seems no exception.

I've skipped a couple pages, entire chapters,

I've looked ahead

and found some juicy bits,

I just can't remember the page numbers.

You are a tome with words beyond count,

one, two, 4,083,

see, I get lost and come to prying myself from your pages,

your prose smeared across my face,

and I can't hide it, I'm sorry, 

I'll make it up, I'll do my best,

I promise, I'm sorry.

I will wring words out my fingers 

til they're hapless husks of helping hands

writing everything I can that might act a candle 

in the black of mashed words

where stood your lighthouse beacon.

I know they don't compare but candles catch

and maybe if it's left untended,

might just light, curling up your pages to- no,

damnit, see? 

I said words wrung would be my best

but never said my best was good.

You are full of laden pages

and I would never burn you.

But...

If ever we found ourselves 

lost in the dark together,

a set of matches between us, 

I must admit

I would have to strike them.

Every one.

Held against your pages,

and, wait, no, not that close!

Too close to be near yet too far to be touching,

just, against.

just enough to light your words that I might read a final chapter,

but not the end, 

I never want to know the end,

I'd sooner imagine it doesn't. 

Reviews

[gypsy scribbler]

Beautiful! I don't really have much more to say.