I'm an open book,
if I love you.
You can read me, whenever...
and however, you like.
By rote...by rite...
by favored passage...
...Rough, or smooth.
...Strong, or gentle.
My pages, will bend, to you...
and press, crisply
towards the texture,
of your intimate touch.
They'll shiver, and spin, for you.
Peruse, my chapters.
Absorb, my thesis.
Allow me, to teach you
the rhythm, of me
until you can speak it,
like a second language.
You can slide your fingers,
down the hard ridges, of my spine,
and break me open,
upon your tabletop.
You can laze, in a dim corner
with me, sprawled
across the thickness, of your lap,
begging you...
to thumb the creases,
and to whisper,
over the wall, of words.
I'm an open book...
until you hurt me.
Then the covers, swing swiftly closed,
like French doors...
unmindful, of fingers.