My book, my love.

This book,
this anthology of mine.
How many times have I opened your covers?
How many times have you spoken to me
from across the room,
begging with your limpid eyes for me to just
take a look at your pages?
I read you when I am:
lonely,
sad,
angry,
happy,
or just me,
no emotions attached.
How many times have I touched you skin,
breathed the velvet curve of your spine?
My hands glide
whisper soft
across your pages,
tracing your ink tattoos,
memorizing you.
Learning you.

You are the best lover
I will ever have.
You know my moods,
you know my touch,
my scent,
my words.
I read your poems aloud,
in the quiet of my bedroom
at dusk.
Your syllables slip smoothly
from my tongue.
You will never leave,
no matter the times I abandon you
for some cheap new thrill.
Instead,
you wait,
patient on the shelf,
for me to come back home.

The End

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