I would love you among the paperbacks and the hardcovers and the smell of wood any night and any day, happily. I’d make a mockery of all the hushing signs signifying silence; and I’d print fingertips & lips across the pale pages of your skin.
We’d start with a passage from a book too beautiful to finish and we’d end with exclamations punctuating ejaculatory paragraphs.
I’d hold you by your spine and by your margins, tenderly trace your endpapers, stack you up right (and upright), open and close your covers, thrill your concordances, read you comprehensively left-to-right and right-to-left. We’d emerge in gasps of air and fiery flushes at the dividers, ready for fresh new chapters of action.
And I want to write on you, in manic splashes, to be ink upon your skin, glistening like the reflection of sky in sunlit reading rooms. I want.
Beautiful.