My book has never been too tired to go to bed with me.
It never has a headache or needs downtime to discuss the day. It never says: please not now, I’m not in the mood.
In fact, my book seduces me with its spine
That beckons from the shelf, yearning for my touch. When I reach out to hold it between my ngers
It eases into them, slides into my palms, yields to my gaze. With tenderness it lays its pages bare for me
And speaks words that carry me through waves of emotions. When my eyes won’t open and I am spent
It rests right next to me, ready for the next round.