Draw your finger down my spine. Take in the smell of me. My pages are soft, shuffling against your thumbs as you spread them. Be careful not to be cut, for I am dangerously sharp if you don’t pay attention to how you touch me. My edges are gilded, romantically old fashioned, opulently dressed in leather, ornate and heavy in your hands. We can be old friends, or lovers, your choice. Trace your fingertips over my ink like it’s Braille. I’ll keep your secrets, only my folded corners will betray your lingering thoughts. I hold your desire, I give you release. You can’t keep your eyes off me as I lay in your lap, your hand feverishly stroking beside me. Sticky fingerprints will mark the sighs and moans that you will return to over and over, my soiled pages become a pilgrimage for your imagination. Close me gently when you’re finished, set me down and let your caresses linger until next time.