I read you like a book, Andoline,
bending back the binding,
to stretch your taut, relenting spine.
I finger your creases back to the beginning
and palm your mounds, your mounds are mine,
Your 12 point pica smell, a cave smell,
the smell of soft stone red with hieroglyphic font.
It wafts violent against the pretty print.
I intuit the space between your 7 storied lines,
the room where I, your faithful reader, unpack my sack,
the space where I, your rough border
settle on sex perfumed sheets.
But know, Love, my going will be dog-eared
for I will return hoping to find you as I left you
soiled with my careless gray fingerprints,
the ash of rude cigarettes smudging your made up world.
I am your story's vital plot, Andoline,
the hands that hold your typeset soul,
the lips that wean your milky words.