I hold your book in my hands –
The edges become my fingertips;
The binding, my tendons,
The creases in pages,
the riverbeds of my palms.
I imagine your eyes
when they read these words before,
processed language to thought to meaning
to discover what I have yet to see.
I smell the coffee-stained pages, you
become part of my lungs.
I feel you wrap around me, warm,
tracing marks left on pages
left for me.
Separated only by a space we call distance,
bound together by what are now my tendons,
you’ve written on my hands
for me to see
with this book
I am never alone.