I said to her
“If you were a book,
l’d lick my fingers
and flip your pages,
until your spine creased
and you lay spent
with nothing left to offer.
Then,
I’d cup you in my palms
and read you
over and over again
until the pages
are wet with dew
and I knew
every inch of your form
But more than that
I would devour
your essence
As if I’m drinking
words from each line
and so your history
Is purged and clean
And todays new page
Becomes fresh
each morning”
