Why does the feel of paper,
stacked beautifully full,
entice me so?
Blank paged,
or ones wet with ink
Dry, coarse with age
Or silken soft in their exquisite youth
Paper that begs to be read
begs to be drawn
Begs for fulfilment of a mind
and whispers you along
And tenderly held
or delicate rip
A reverency
and urgency
that plies my grip
Why, this paper,
my jaws ache and clench
My finger-tips cry need
the tickle as I trace
thought.
Why does the feel of paper,
stacked beautifully so,
entice me..
so full.
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