The Book sat coyly upon the shelf,
As though I wasn't even there,
Leering at it, imagining what was under the covers.
Picturing myself spreading her virgin bindings.
You could tell she had never been taken out,
It was clear that I would be her first.
It must be scary for a book, their first read,
But she was made for it, written for my hand,
To spread her pages, drifting my hands
Across those pert lines of dark text,
Taking everything she has to give.

And when he was done reading her,
He would lay her down, one last lustful look,
And then return her to where he had found her.
Where she would sit huddled on the shelf,
And cry.