the soft paper cut

if you were a book of poems,
i'd wake up every morning
with ink on my fingertips
and the smell of fresh paper
etched in my mind.

i'd carry you with me
for morning coffee
and run my hands
up and down your spine
before absorbing
the breadth of your pages
and exploring
your body of work.

you'd accompany me
sitting under an oak tree
and we'd lose ourselves in each other,
line by line
until i have every inch of you
memorized.

if you were a book of poems
i'd take you to bed
and you'd be the last thing i'd see
before falling asleep.