degrees of relating to books

I’m a novel slut.
I stick with them
Until they bore me
Or I finish them up.
Read’em and dump’em
On a bookshelf,
On a cash-back,
Back to the library
Or whomever lent
Or on to someone who’ll borrow.
Or somewhere along a trip
At a friend’s or the hotel I spent the nights
Hoping they’ll be taken care of
By the cleaning lady
Or the next traveler.

I’m a textbook pimp.
They earn me something
For some time
And then become useless.
Read’em and sell’em
To the next pupil in need.

Why hold on to something
I’ll never hold again?
If you love’em, set’em free – right?

Only with poetry books
I have the most passionate affairs.
Addictions I can’t shake nor sate.
Read’em and keep’em
And return to them, eventually.
I’ll afford one more
That’ll make my heart coil and swell,
Unaccomplished and understood.
I’ll turn the same pages for years on.
Fingers baffled by the last verses
Anticipating the succeeding,
Like when you drag your skin
Over your most intimate lover’s body:
You know what you’ll find
And still your senses fray.

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