Reading

I realized, this morning, on the upper deck of the bus, almost everybody was reading, hidden behind undulating waves of wings in an aviary of literature:
the broad expanse of the newspapers’ staid gray wings;
the bright, chatty, glossily colorful feathers of the
   magazines;
the books’ busy, nondescript brown plumes speckled
   black with words.

Settling into my seat I too began to read -
turning over the pages
   of the open book of your face
underlining the fringe of lashes
   bordering your eyes
finger-reading your life story
   from the contours of your features
tracing the lines on your palms in an attempt
to discover the conclusion of our love story -

My reading was incomplete - cut short
when I arrived at my destination -
but so does our tale remain unfinished.
I think there might still be quite a ways
   to its ending -

What say you we add a few more chapters
   of mystery, exploration, and of love?

It would make for an enjoyable novel in those lazy Saturday afternoons where we would half-drowse, half-browse, and nod off,

                                        our book perched
on our laps, wings spread, ready to take off
into the neverwhere of our dreams, in search of
a brand new chapter.