You can tell the discomfort a new book feels
From the first moment you hold it.
It stiffens as you flip it open to a random page.
The crisp virgin edges may try to cut you
Quick so that you set it down.
After a few moments it can begin to relax
If it senses good intentions through
The fingers feeling its being.
Given enough time it will
Open easily to such familiar touches,
It may even be fine with new hands
After some time. It won’t mind
The little bits of wear at the corners
As they become rounded
From repeated readings.
If ultimate trust is gained
It will permit marginalia
And highlighted lines of text.
It will grow despondent
If you part ways
But it knows there could be
Another set of hands
Another set of eyes
Waiting for the moment
To meet and share
The most intimate of words
From deep within its pages.
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