The pages, smoky yellow,
It sits in my hand
Light as a feather,
The print is fairly small
But every word has a resonance far greater than its size.
As the page, thin and delicate as silk
Slips beneath my hand
As I loosen my grip
So as to read page, the next,
The sound is like that of butterflies wings, magnified.
The musty, dusty smell hits my nose and for a second
Intoxicates my senses
And rests behind my eyes,
Making them yet more eager to read
Those perfect words,
Those words which have not aged
Like the paper upon which, they are
In black and white.