The Book of the Lover

 This is a book and a body that is so warm to the touch.
My touch.
I have pressed this book to my eyes, to my forehead, to my cheeks,
I have held this book open across my belly.

I have sat smiling on this book until my flesh felt wedded to it's covers.
I have sat laughing on this book until I have moistened it's covers with my body.
I have wrapt this book around my legs.
I have knelt on this book until my knees bled.

This book and I have become indivisible.
I have placed my feet on this book's last pages,
Confident of standing so much higher in the world than I ever stood before.
May I keep this book forever.
May this book and this body outlast my love.
May this body and this book love me as I love its length,
Its breadth, its thickness, its text, its skin, its letters,
Its punctuation, its quiet and its noisy pages.
Its tickling delights.

Book, body - I love you.

It breathes gently in its first page.
It breathes deeper as the pages turn.
When the rhythm of reading is ensured,
The words gain a roaring speed and the pages race.
I have raced with these pages.
At its ending there is a sigh and the book is closed in contentment.

The reader willingly begins again.
Body and book are open.
Face and page.
Body and page.
Blood and ink.
Finger ends, ferruled edging.
The surface of each pages edge is so smooth.
The watermarks are like flushed veins.
The pages are so harmonious in their proportion.
Disharmony in the contents is impossible.

(The Pillow Book)