Nursing cracked paper backs and dusty reference works,
Softly uttered beauty,
Topped by brown bun glows in alabaster skin,
Bespectacled,
She whispers,
Quiet please.
Words slip through fingers,
Stretched,
In constrained eroticism,
A country woman in tweed.
Her passing stamp,
Over a pristine white sheet,
beckoning,
“return”.
Reading her unspoken words,
A chapter opens,
I succumb to her prose,
Love,
I suppose.