A Bibliophile's Ballad

I slowly transpose from Flesh and Blood to Page and Pen.

 

My hands are dog-eared, and lined
From folding them in anxious knots at your side,
As if I could build the courage 
To weave them between yours,
If I but practiced the plait enough by myself.

 

The glue binding my pages 
Melts, in the white hot heat of You,
And I tear at the seams,
Spewing volumes of protective fictions,
Awkward silences like semi-colons perforating the plot.

 

Sinking 
Slowly
In the cerulean seas 
That surge like tsunamis in your eyes,
Ink bleeds from my scroll
In a maelstrom of sonnets and stanzas, 
And I am left
Blank.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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