Until 6AM, my eyes trace the words of a novel,
Where, in the crevices of each white space,
Between words of intensity and description,
I follow the careful lead of my index finger,
Always seeming to mistakenly spell your name.

Each letter whines as my trail grows treacherous,
The spine of the book moans in his extended ache,
Pages scream for me to allot them time to rest—
But here, in these numbered chapters,
I recall the taste of your single syllable title.

Not much longer after the thought creeps,
Deeper, I find myself wrapped in our memories—
New pages take on your fresh, sweet scent,
The protective sleeve, clothes that you shed before climbing into bed,
Flipping pages becomes the crash of you whispering love in my ear.

Until a week ago, you wrapped your arms around my hips,
Plucked every fear that dared to sprout from my pores,
Tended to my loneliness, engulfing it in your company,
Guided the tips of your fingers along my scarred thighs,
Made the kind of love to me that rests in this book.