I hold it close to me, like it's a precious child,
keep it safe and protected, or is it my own sanctuary?

Stroke the furling parchment, feel its elegant roughness,
as though its power could pass over through my awe-filled caress.

Divulge my pimply nose, inhaling its papery scent,
like the most magical of flowers, just waiting for consent.

Drag my sweaty fingers across the printed ink,
feel the words and take them, all these things for me to think.