The Only Tome You’ll Ever Need
I touch your tears
as they weep on languid pages
like a solitary drop of rain,
leaving sodden traces,
seeking the sun’s solace
and the warmth of my ink,
trapped as a character
existing only in a novel.
I see your pooled green eyes
imploring me to gather you
into my story so that you
can escape your heartbreak.
But it is I who begs
to escape the confinement
of my imprisonment
in the cold world of phrases.
You can close the book on me
and I’ll still be there while
you make furtive escape
from your reality, feeling
the catharsis my words
have gifted you as you
go one living in your flesh.
I can imbibe your lilting voice
emanating from your world
but my existence stays
in swirled idioms
as I yearn to hold you,
tightly, in more
than erotic thoughts.
Your lips trace my words
and moisten my ragged pages,
which fall in scraps
around my hidden heart.
I want to consume you
in my burning novel
of erotic happenstance
while your life
occurs and evolves
without me.
When you slam my book shut,
you leave dog-eared corners,
poignant evidence you melted
my inner core,
partaking of my sustenance,
without ever responding
to the hardness of
my scroll inside you,
loving you as I bring
you to the ultimate in life.
Every time you open
my book, it is as if
you have opened your body,
spreading your legs
to me and have returned
once again smelling of
fresh rain allowing me to
inhale you and incorporate
you into my passionate embrace.
Your emotions transcend
your denials as my need
for you filters through
and touches your skin,
feeling your dew
as you flush and
become aroused.
I bleed crimson nouns
and sensual verbs
for you, as I emote
in my novel,
finding myself dying
in the middle of
a heartfelt sentence
of promise and love.
I will never forget
the lingering look
of lust and desire
on your face
as you closed my book
with only a backward glance
and ran off with
a character in
another piece of fiction.
Why couldn’t you see
that I was the only tome
you would ever need?