Write to Love/Love to Write

Pages flutter past my fingers.

Stiff edges almost cutting the tips.

So many words

thick black blocks of ink

and ideas.

I never count syllables --

certain lines just feel right.

Certain stories resonant

as if I had written 

(or experienced) them.

But I take as it is.

Silence as my eyes roam.

Lips, eyes, teeth, the lanky frame.

A bit of warmth at my shoulder.

My hands itch to read.

To travel an unknown spine,

brush dust from certain places.

If only I could brush lips

against the inked page.

Feel the weight

on my chest and arms as I rest.

Each page specifically special to me.

Every night I yearn to read,

as the pages are read

across rooms,

over shoulders,

in the dark.

Reading takes such time.