I’ve seen many like her in this library,
lonely, searching for the right book.
Her fingertips teased many titles before,
getting closer, my table of contents shook.
Delighted by my Dewey’s decimal,
she grabbed me off these crowded shelves.
The other books cried out in agony
because they couldn’t compel themselves.
Her eyes glanced at my insert jacket,
thoughts of cozy nights and wine.
Ignoring all my folded bends,
her touch sent jolts up my spine.
I wanted her to smudge my ink
with the warm oils of her naked skin.
And entrap her in my legend,
a satisfying story of unsuspecting sin.
