Watching You Read

Eyes downcast.

Intent.

Hardbound book in hand,

fingers lay splayed around its spine

caressing it with a familiar grip.

An upward curl of your  lips,

as baby blues dilate

momentarily

to drink in the words upon the page.

What adventure do you ride into?

What romance causes the rush I

see to come to pale pink cheeks?

Does the beat of your heart quicken, as

the rising action lifts your senses to the edge,

only to send you cascading off a cliff?

You are a mystery written in a foreign tongue, a conundrum, an enigma, a puzzle

within  a puzzle.

Had I the time

to spy all my days

as you luxuriate with knees

drawn up in quiet

meditation,

lost in a world of someone’s else’s

creation.

I would count myself a very

lucky man.

by Philip Wardlow 2014