To be loved is to be seen,
and to be seen is to be studied—
noticed, dissected, explored,
investigated, pondered upon,
familiarized, nitpicked, even at times.
Bibliolepsy is a sign of depravity,
craving, longing and yearning—
and I yearn for you.

I trace your margins with trembling fingers,
annotate your silences,
highlight the pauses between your sighs,
memorize the italic curve of your thoughts.
Your footnotes haunt me.
Your ellipses ******.

You are earmarked in my memory,
creased in the corners of every chapter
I write alone at night.
Your spine, fragile with use,
still holds the weight of my need.

To read you once is to read you forever—
a manuscript inked in breath and glance,
revised by time, but never forgotten.
You are the first edition of desire,
untranslated, unabridged,
and wholly mine to interpret.