Reading to me.

When we first shared this bed,
We decided to also share books.
The intimacy of both experiencing,
Thoughts, ideas,
Or just a character's fantastical life.
Each night,
Turn on turn.
We started on our most beloved novels,
For me,
Jane Eyre, The Prodigal Summer, For Love Alone.
For him, Gerald Durrell and Harry Potter Books.
The idea seemed sound.
But he could only stay alert if seeing the script before his eyes.
I dismayed, watched as he re-read my previously orated chapter.
So we found a new pattern.
I listen,
He reads.
All goes well until sleep overtakes him mid chapter.
The slurring and losing his place are the precursors.
I enjoy letting the pictures form in my head,
Until he puts on a discordant voice for an accented characterisation.
His attempt at an Australian accent the most jarring.
But generally his soft tenor pleasantly strokes my eardrums.
And I can think of none so pleasant, passing of an afternoon,
Than laying together in the warm sunshine,
Sharing a book.

Book

I take in long drafts of the familiar smell,
Paper and fresh print.
Hear the crack of the paperback's spine.
Feel the  texture,
Of not quite smooth paper,
Beneath my resting hand.
The grease of my fingers,
Provide just enough friction to turn a page.
Everything is crisp and new.
Unspoiled, untainted.
I love the entirety of this sensual, tactile experience.
The opening of a new book