Prose too prosaic for you

You hold a book, a book I love, it casts a shadow upon your face,
You burrow into words that have you smitten as they had me,

Your beautifully dense brows furrow and your eyes dart back and forth,

Devouring each page with a lusty appetite, you lean forward, completely taken,

It is probably nothing to anyone else, but you seem to me, most pervious,

You look like you should be touched, like you call for an embrace, that you are but to be loved,

With no real reason to help me understand, why in mundane activities, so star spangled you seem,

There is nothing to help me cope, with the feelings you draw out of me, why with you I’m malleable and ductile,

If there was a polaroid that could capture my life this moment, there you’d be reading, brown-gilded into sharp focus, everything else barely blurred noise ….