Bookworm


I find you bookish.
No, that’s a compliment.

With pages of skin
loose,
inelastic,
windblown;
using old words,
elsewhere dying
from disuse.

Your conversation perfumed by yellowed pages.
other eyes hold you pallid.
Mistake dryness
for dust.

You fall into my hands
flop over
as I turn you.

Pulsing.

I read you Crimson.

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