Crushed Pages

You are my favourite book. I would love to read it over and over.

The poetry in you is the oldest wine added with nectar, 

and you smell like crushed flowers under a blanket all the winter.

Your body has those lines I would love to highlight with my fingertips.
Sometimes your conversation is that page I would never think to skip.

The other times your silence is a blank page which makes me think.

Turing those pages is like undressing you by layers. 
The more I read you, the deeper gets my gaze.

Your stubbornness is like those pages that aren't ready to turn. 
And for your special treatment, I lick my fingertips, tickling you to turn.

When done with the reading, I get satisfied.

Resting my face on the last page and thinking, "Is it the end, and why?"

Spellbound with your poetry and craving more of it. 
I flip you again, but this time to read you from Backside.

You are equally delicious from both the sides

Like seven music notes hold their grace starting from each side.

Persuaded by your romantic literature, I conclude that chapter with exhausted eyes 
and my bookmark buried under those thick pages titled as thighs.

The only book on my bed.

-Wishyou