We are Books

All the ones I want to read are already reading someone else.
And I'm certain you're no exception to this literary rule.
And yet, you are here and I can't help but take you off the shelf.
I want to open these bookends and let my eyes run rampant on the pages of time.
But for now I am simply lost in your eyes barely blinking.
Open and shut,
without missing a word, I read.
Like pages I turn at the end of a riveting chapter,
you pull me along and draw me in.
I wake with you on the mind.
A plot subconsciously developed all night long.
You, the merely unknown to me,
lay beside me now in bed, not far from my own clasped hands,
not far from my own cinematic head.
You, the book still resting on my pillow
Where your image gently fell last night,
when i fell asleep a little past 1.
a little past chapter 1,
I closed my eyes.
You're new to me but locked away within these linen sheets is a story with much to read.
Skin of supple leather holds the story, binds you.
binds me.
Holds more than what meets the eye,
as words often do.
I'm lost somewhere between page 10 and infinity.
But this is the story of my own life, also.
Caught in between...
Learning the contours of story lines and laugh lines and lifelines,
written long before there was you
and long before there was me.
I'm trying not to narrate this daytime dreaming, but I've always got poetics on the mind.
And I can't help but wonder if stories will be more and more interwoven
as the Cosmic Poet draws us out in curves and lines,
with limbs overlapping and plosives on the lips.
I am a word with definitions waiting to be defined.
Rest me on the pages of these thoughts, scratch me on the walls of your mind.
Rest me like a pen between pointer and thumb,
hard pressed with firmness of desire.
Rest me between sheets of paper, half-scripted with everyday lines.
Rest me in your body of words.
Your body of works.
Rest your story next to mine.