You have left her vulnerable,
An unlocked diary,
Carelessly forgotten on a bedside table
Tempting you with secrets
You fear to reveal
She is more than letters, words, phrases
Carved into fragile parchment
By anonymous authors
Of truth and illusion.
"The body is the book of the soul"
Yet you linger sheltered in bland white spaces
Caress her laughter and her tears with your finger
As it traces the lines of her pages
Let her fantasies of...velvet and lace...surround you
Taste her fear of your rejection bitter almonds
Step into the ether
Of her dreams and nightmares
For only there do you dare touch the colors
Of the sacred and the sinful locked within.
And when you turn to the last page
With its half-finished entry,
Will you fill it with gilded ribbons of her thoughts
Or will you softly close her, walk away.
You never read her?