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Reading
May 9, 2011
I hold a book:
253 pages,
15 chapters,
too-many-to count syllables,
all of which I call my own.
I crack open
the soft red binding.
Words reach into my eyes
and swarm my brain,
each personalized
with meaning,
with texture,
with pleasure.
I am hypnotized
by the circles of the Os,
and transfixed by the
half of a
figure eight
we call an S.
My finger brushes
the page number
that is smiling up at me
from the ivory paper.
Untouched,
until now.
Why would I ever want to stop?
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Favorite Quote:
*beepbeep* <br /> "Where to, Miss?" <br /> "To the stars."