the book poem

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I like to run
my fingers across your
hard surface,
sometimes glossy smooth or
flecked with raised bumps or,
if your shell is soft,
I like to hold you
with both of my hands and
bend you back and forth.
I like to open you
when you’re new
and your spine has not yet been
broken in and
the sheets
untouched
unturned
slice the side of my index finger when I
rifle through them.
I like pressing
my nose
against the letters on your
cream-colored insides
and breathing in
and out.
I like you even when
your pages have turned
brown
the edges
dark with stains,
riddled with small tears.
When I see you
unshut, sitting
innocently on a coffee table,
naked and inviting,
what can I do
but thumb through and let
my eyes do
what they do?

Created: Apr 02, 2014

Tags: book, poetry

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