It was the way you touched that book --
Your fingers sliding on its cover --
Your slight detachment from your mood,
That made me paint your hues of colors.
It was the way you stroked that book --
Your fingers hungry for the touching
In slow unwillingness to move --
That made me want to touch your body.
It was how you caressed that book--
Your fingers feeling hidden letters
And sinking in the cover's hue --
That made me colors on your canvas.