From a Book: A Poem

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One Day,
Your flattened fingertips
Rubbed smooth by too many swipes
Over too many screens

Are going to miss me
Yearning for the mottled texture of my insides
I  may cut you at first -
An injury of unfamiliarity

But that nick will heal as i absorb your blood
It shall be a token to worlds far away from here
I am waiting to bear you by all sorts of magical transports
That only an author can conjure

Come to me hungry
And let me feed you
Nibble, gnaw and chew to your heart's content
I am your escape
I have keys to every shackle and hobble ever constructed
Let me enter your veins and course through
Make you addicted and detached
From the Armageddon that is outside your windows

Drink my Sufi wine, intoxicated by the most Divine
Let my spine bear your weight as you recline

For now...
I live in a museum
What you used to call a "library"
Where I am still and dusty but wide awake and alive
Waiting for your fingers to honor and humor me

In exchange, I will give you everything I hold dear
In an inky smudge of reciprocity

I am waiting
for your fingers to remember me...

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