My book has never been too tired to go to bed with me.
It never has a headache or needs down-time to discuss the day.
It never says: please not now, I'm not in the mood.
In fact, my book seduces me with its spine
that beckons from the shelf, yearning for my touch.
When I reach out to hold it between my fingers
it eases into them, slides into my palm, yields to my gaze.
With tenderness, it lays it pages bare for me
and speaks words that carry me through waves of emotion.
When my eyes aren't open and I am spent,
it rests right next to me, ready for the next round.