Women are like Books

Women are like books
So my friend said.
If you see one you like,
Pick it up,
Or someone else will,

So many books,
Of so many kinds,
Worthless most,
Of pink garish hues,
And inane shallow news.

Some dark as night,
With innocent smiles bright,
Upon their covers,
Beckon you within,
To daggers and poisonous delight.

Some so long, heavy and tedious,
Some must be kept so fastidious,
While the ones with the jacket-less covers,
Are always stolen away by others.

Some books are to see, they do not speak,
And to try and read that other one,
Would take many a fruitless week.
And while that lovely book beckons too,
It's someone else's and it's not for you.

Then you see it.
Your book.
Just there.
Just for you.
About no other do you care,
As you wait stop and stare,
At the one you take home.

You hold in your hands,
Gently,
As the scent ensnares and takes you away.
As you run your hands over,
The back,
The spine,
Ever so lightly.
Feeling the smooth skin,
As you part the halves,
Hands gliding down the insides,
Feeling,
Then holding,
Then you devour whats within
With your eyes,
As your finger follows the patterns,
Line by line.
You plunge within,
Deeper and deeper,
Faster and faster
Till to the waking world,
You are no more
And then...
You return
Excited.
Rushed.
Satiated.

Leaving your hands for the present time,
But you cannot help but break a smile,
For pleasures now past and to come in time.

I always liked reading in bed.