He Is A Book

He is a breathing book
each night I touch the pages
delicately,
turn to find
his heart in letters
written by hand

Scent of vanilla
soft and sensuous
unveiling another thought
another smiling memory
another intimate piece of him

And I read with such abandon
across his pages
my fingers trailing
his soft
paper skin

In his sighs
he speaks of
stories and sonnets
history and fantasy
blue skies and silvery silks

I hear his voice
in the pages
wanting to know him
every line
every word
every letter

Now I take him into me
share my book with him
until we know
can read each glance
each whisper
each touch

He is a book
and I love to read the pages