Between the sheets

 

I confess,

to sleeping with books,

covers spread open and waiting—

they beckon,

a fluttering of leaves

like lapping tongues.

Oh, their smooth embossed spines.

 

The tawdry ones are good for a night.

Rumpled, smelling of smoke,

usually borrowed and broken.

They’re anybody’s book,

sorry, sticky maybe,

used and returned.

 

The worldly wise leave an exotic taste,

others have the common language

of guttersnipes but

provide good tale.

Some disappoint—

summer flings, read

and dismissed,

important as the sand

shaken from my shoe.

 

I can’t help but embrace them all,

stroking the ones I love,

smelling their words.

After a good read, I’m bushed.

Lying across my chest,

the latest listens to my heartbeat

while I take in what else it says.

 

© Ellen Wade Beals

 

Books have always been my best companions so I thought I’d share my profession of love. Hope you have a good book, someone to love, and someone who loves you.