I’m so unfaithful to you, book.  I lay around with you all night, nowhere to go, nothing else which needed doing.  I took you in the bathtub and then dragged you back to bed, barely able to towel myself off before I opened you again.  I could barely keep myself in the moment of each page, so eager to discover everything about you.  I practically had my mouth around your syntax, saying it with you, until finally I reached the last page, and lingered only a moment before putting you down.  You’re still on the pillow but I’m up, walking around: a drink of water, a stretch, a walk around the house, feeding the cats.  I’ll think about you the rest of the night, sleep with the memory of you, but tomorrow, I will open up the next book and begin reading.  We spend a week together, maybe two, and then I move on to the next thing, not in spite of you, dear book, never in spite of you: because reading you brought such pleasure, and later served only to remind me that there are so many books I’ve yet to read.