My pale, painted hands scan your cover,
fingertips greeting one another.
But plastic lines separate restless lovers,
like devotion's some kind of prison
that robs
these raining eyes of all vision.
It's my eyes and your story now,
like a work of fiction.
You are the main character
with the most meticulous description.
If your pages could talk,
would they speak to me,
whispering honesty
through their bindings?
Like an elegant verse,
a sanguine drink,
I devour your text,
leaving my hands
stained
the deepest red of ink.
And, oh, how I want to believe
(just make me believe)
you'll reserve space for me
in your biography.
And if you could,
make it convincing.
'Cause you're so stunning--
I've never seen you look so well,
knees drawn upon my windowsill.
You are the only book worth reading,
so try not to deceive me,
please...

I bleed easily.