Have you ever read a book
that snatched you?
That held you fast with a hand more real
than the room of your repose?
This hand is sinew and bone
formed from plot so strong that
each sentence stops your breath.
The words, its pulse, beat against your ears
with hurried, halting heat.
Its movement is the lines
as they rise and fall with the urgency
of languishing lungs.
Its skin is the creamy feel
of the textured tome atop your table.
Its fingers of intrigue caress your cheek
with fevered suspense.
It draws you in for the climactic kiss
as reality and mesmerizing myth merge…
only to toss you away with the bleary desire
for something right beyond your reach.