Reading

I never could read digital books.

I need to touch the words,

Feel the bark of an old forest

Slip through the cardamom

Of hot mugs over cerulean rains,

My fingers find empty corners

Filled with more promises than

I have known men to keep,

In ink fermented with my years

Spent within and without covers

Leather-bound corsets eager to be

Undressed with difficult patience,

Your bone-white flesh will be

the bookmarks to my smiles

On dank monsoon days;

My dear, I could read you

All night long.