I keep your books on my bedside table in the hope that I absorb the words in my dreams.

I recite the lines over and over, letting them sink beneath my skin.

My mantra,

Your prayer.

An obsession with the detail, the precise selection of words. The thump of the full stop, the breath of the comma, the punch of the exclamation mark.

It’s become a solo acquisition, my nightly ritual.

The real world never made sense to me anyway, let me delve back inside those words.

Corners folded over, creases now soothed.
Pages attract the light.
Luminescent.
My solo acquisition, my living recital.
D R Forest 2016 ©
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