You are a poetry book reclining on my couch
and I want to turn your legs like pages
fold myself into you
the way I dog-ear favourite passages
to re-read and re-visit in the morning.
You could be a sexy bestseller curled up
in my bed.
But I want to guard you from review
and keep you obscure
from publishers and popular culture -
check you out as unavailable in libraries
to keep you as my
and lie with you myself.
We'll clothe each other in dust covers
only to undress
over lazy cups of coffee in Sunday hours
our own personal bookclub
of bibliophilic eroticism.
(We'll slide our bookmarks in each other
and collaborate on the shelf).