A Bookish Sonnet

The pages of the book, like inked skin
beckon to me from table near my bed.
They whisper in the twilight hours again;
and push the thought of sleep out of my head.

The cover creaks echoing in the air.
I cringe and hold my breath to hear you speak.
I know disturbing you is quite unfair;
though I cannot resist a fleeting peek.

The typeface fairly shimmers in my sight,
while words and phrases quickly draw me deep.
I’m lost within the lines, while slow the night
passes by, in hours bereft of sleep.

The cover whispers closed with morning’s dawn.
Again, I’ve traded sleep for fancy’s yarn.