Bibliophile
I wanted him to open my book,
run his fingers slowly,
painstakingly over the lines
of my ink-stained pages,
and smile. Perhaps the curl
to his lips revealed more about him
than his spoken words ever would.
For those moments, our violent minds
and quiet tongues intersected
and forged a kinetic energy
our bodies never disclosed,
except in their subtleties.
He longed for my words
wrapped around his hungering mind.
I poured chapters of myself
for him to drink. He became
consumed in my thoughts
and I in his rapturous read of me.
I desired for words to run naked
in his mind, to seduce his heart
with conflicts and characters.
I wanted climactic scenes
and downward spirals
behind doors so breathless
he could not put my book
down.
But how does one construct
an ending to the book
she has loved writing,
watching him devour,
and teasing his imagination?
Are we all just books
in need of a hand hold,
a close reading,
an artful appreciation?
And, if so, are our souls
a single volume or scores
of heavy leather tomes
so exquisite and brilliantly
colorful they could flood
the floors of our imagination
forever?
Does it take the reader to inspire
the book, or was the text
a buried treasure seeking
to be unearthed from
time’s inception?
©️Rhapsodyinblue
-A poem published in my first poetry collection entitled Heart Psalms