Ode to an Old Book

The words are wearing
from your spine
in sober gradient,
resolutely raven at the opening “S,”
but trailing to a barely-brown
just fifteen letters later.
Still, your hardy spine supports
six-hundred pages,
yellowing and smelling of vanilla,
dust, and antique sweat.
I thrust my nose
and lips and cheeks
into the lusty center of you,
gasping like I might inhale
the very punctuation
set upon your grainy paper.