A Book of You

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you stand there
and look at me;
what a strange look it is,
locks me in perpetuity;

your eyes fill me
in their perfect proportions
to the very rim of me;

what are you doing over there? you ask,
experimenting, I say,
with what? you ask again;
elusiveness, I reply, of the syllable;

and though you look sad, then,
as though you are a word in some poem
I leave unused or unread;
disharmony in your contents is impossible;

I take you in my hands
as an empty book, smelling sweet,
with milk-white pages still to spread;
awaiting the spike of my pen,
seeking the flowing ink
of illustration to invade
the virgin spaces of you mind;

to write down my thoughts and desires,
to press myself to your eyes,
to kiss your forehead, cheeks, lips
with my breath, to burn your fires
out across my body; until our marred flesh
reveals what it really covers;
even those smallest things
we hug into the very grave;

save for the souls revealing
in this art of reading;
for if you are a diligent reader
then your living body
becomes one with her book
you'll use it as support,
to stand taller
than you ever stood before;
or raise you higher
to those library shelves
you never knew;

and there will be a favourite book
on the highest shelf
in a secret bookcase
of a private library;
as though it's a book of you;
but it is of her,
and it will make you
want to keep reading it forever,
make you want to love it
even more than you do;
happy it will outlast you;

so, I look at you,
open the body of your book;
warm the paper with my touch;
look at the face of its page;
trace a finger instinctively
down the length of its spine;

memorise its length and thickness,
its text and its skin,
its letters, its punctuation,
its quiet and noisy pages,
smooth the creases other have made
on the nude egding,
at the corners of well-thumbed pages;
the markers left as indentation,
add to its evolutional history
like a living diary;

now I start reading the story;
the text has a blood flow;
I follow its pulse,
beat in its harmony,
until I can read it with my eyes closed;
I hear it breathe; gently from its first page
to a deeper breathing,
as I turn the pages;
now I'm lipreading,

and once a rhythm of reading is ensured,
see how the words will gain
a roaring speed and the pages race;

but you keep pace without fear,
run with the story, turn the pages
quickly to reach the end
and close the book, contented,

we take a moment's break,
until the second slower reading,
as satisfied readers do,
and I stare at you lying there;
what a beautiful book you make,

what are you doing over there? I ask,
experimenting, you say,
with what? I ask again;
elusiveness, you reply; of the poetical,

and I smile, then,
as though I am a word in your poem
you have chosen in your head
and harmony in such contents
is impossible not to put to bed.

Published 30 May, 2026

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