you love books
you tell me
the feel of them
the smell of them
the holding of them
in your hands
the stories they tell
yet
although I have
a spine
for you to run your fingers down
although I would
whisper my passion into your ticklish ears
and although I have
pictures to paint in your mind's
eye
and although I would
hold you between covers
caress the creamy
vellum of your skin
between clean white sheets
although I would draw you in
on long winter nights
make love to you by firelight
or by summer moonlight
I would ignite you
bite you
tease you
touch you
stroke you
make you laugh
make you cry
make you yearn
for my longing arms
for the warmth of my strong thigh
the soft beat
from the taut drum
of my chest
although I would
be the author of our lives together
and you my heroine
wrapped in a golden shawl
windswept and wild
with a diamond light in her eye
brought to singing life
with my tender pen
despite all this
you have eyes
only for another fiction
