I trace my fingers lightly up the spine,
and my palms slide over a broad shoulder.
I pull it close to my figure and breathe in the masculine odor.
The pads of my fingers dance lightly toward the sleeve,
yet I’m hesitant to discover what lies underneath.

Books are designed to be strong.
Their sharp edges and crisp pages
accentuate intellectual features,
while the intricate cover designs give the book
a unique, albeit a loud voice.

Anticipation surges through my body,
for the knowledge contained here
can potentially alter my life philosophy,
bring my world crashing down,
or depressingly prove to be yet another notch in my bookmark.

The tension in the air before one opens a book is tangible.
Thoughts seem to cloud the area,
awaiting the cool breeze from the page’s turn to clear the mist.
At that point, the words leap out, entwine and wind
around themes, metaphors, and plotlines,
and stream into one’s mind.
It implants itself until the end, and becomes
a thing unable to be forgotten,
getting its victim hooked.

With no further consideration, I tear open the cover
and my pupils linger upon the artistry underneath.
My extremities leap into action and being to
stroke the thin composure.
It flutters through my fingertips, smooth and soft,
leaves satisfaction coursing through my veins.

Books, novels, anthologies and poetry –all which lie inside a book brothel, are my addiction.

"This will certify that the above work is completely original." Ava Yergo