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I am a book, a familiar paperback,
By the side of your bed,
Left unfinished, but never forgotten
Well browsed, comforting
Slightly worn.

I have a lot to offer but not necessarily in alphabetical order.
I won’t be your first book just the one to remember.
More open than closed, a literary reference,
No chapter and verse.

I am the type you read during your lunchtime,
On the tube, the train,
On your bicycle at your perils
On your travels
And in bed.

I am the type you take on holiday
To get away from it all,
Not the one you would like your husband to read.
I smell of sea and sand,
My pages sun kissed,
Responding to the touch and not torn,

You can make of me what you want
Colour me, annotate me,
Throw me at the wall.
My words will not leave you,
I meant to be addictive and inspiring.

I am not the one to prop up some old table,
I aspire to some posh libraries...

Why don’t you read me?