Pillow Book: Hiead

If you are my story, Cover to cover, No end page in sight, How have you Etched your soul Across my marrow?

Troubled and riddled: A book of grey secrets, Some written in tears, With scratched and marred pages- A wise man would consign This text to a furnace.

But heaven smiles on fools, On wild-haired, wild-eyed fools, Whose winter-night depths Promise shelter to seeds And weary creatures Till springtime wakes the sleepers.

To look at you Is to see a vision Of who I have been, and who I'd like to be.

To kiss your mouth Is to speak a new language: The language of trust, the language of yes.

To touch and taste you Is to learn strange grammar, An unfading Braille that marks nerves and skin.

To lay with you Is to join heart to hand, Bound in a mutual, transforming ardor.

I can't tell you What unnerves me more: That you are my book, Or that I am now yours.

I fear surrender: Maybe you'll laugh At this shabby volume And its antihero.

And yet, You receive me As if I were sacred: A gilded, jeweled treasure Open only for you, Read only by you, Known only to you.

And heaven, do smile On this silver fool, As pages turn And two stories entwine.