A Certain Reality

My hand hovers over the innermost

Recess of pages

Typed and trodden;

Who is it that fails

These innocent bystanders;

These respectful books?

My hand lowers the divide

Between myself and the

Paper that is now

Mine;

I feel the pulsating of breath

Where the author’s speedy

Words came forth.

I feel the heartbeat

Of the characters

On my palm;

Smooth and maternal,

As if it’s a thin layer

Between this life
And another more real.