I said to her

“If you were a book,

l'd lick my fingers

and flip your pages,

until your spine creased

and you lay spent

with nothing left to offer.

Then,

I'd cup you in my palms

and read you

over and over again

until the pages

are wet with dew

and I knew

every inch of your form

But more than that

I would devour

your essence

As if I’m drinking

words from each line

and so your history

Is purged and clean

And todays new page

Becomes fresh

each morning”