With long and slender fingers
Of skin that's deeply bronzed,
And his nails bitten down and rough
He is flipping though the pages
Of an old beaten book.
The story, it consumes him.
He is lost in foreign lands.
Spain engulfs citizens with its beauty.
It has a mystery about it,
Which I see gleaming in his eyes.
"Tell me, what about that novel grips you?"
I ask with great interest.
His focus breaks for just long enough
To set his sweet brown gaze upon me.
"Well, it is I that grips the book."