Wednesday, 4 February 2015

The Book I Cannot Close

O how I long to feel
Your limbs tumbling over me
With the weight of the leaves
Of a book truly hewn
Of grand and tentative nuance,
Nonchalantly with intrigue
Browsed and inspected
By my curious fingers
And inward glances
To you.

Sensibilities of words
Soaking into my mind
Like rippling waterlines,
Endlessly without remorse
Withdrawing to their sea,
Meant ever thus to be,
Like the turning globe
And the broken heart
And the way you are loved
By me.

Seeking you in all,
I read both old and new
As though, just perhaps,
I might from a sentence
Pluck you and
Reinvestigate you,
Or even reinvent you,
Fresh to my mind as if
Rewriting the full anecdotal story
Of us.

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