Reading at Night

There's a in magic books late at night, when exhaustion and fear of the eerie silence of the witching hour play with the mind to coax stories off pages and into life.
I lie on my stomach on the bed, propped up on my elbows, caught in an shot of light cast by a single lamp. The rest of the room seems to be sleeping in the dark greys and shadows that have seeped in from the corners. The lamp is bent over to point directly at me, skimming over the book, highlighting the textures of the pages with little bits and shadows lost in daytime. The paper glitters and my fingers' skeletal shadows grow long and dance on the paper. Each fiber is delicately woven into the page, the delicately detailed and gently yellowed paper, pressed flat and flickering, fighting, as though they're alive and trying to unwind. The ink of the print seeps into them, staining the paper in letters. In the shadows and tricks of night, the ink can leak out of its perfectly shaped letters and move around the page. I hold my face far too close, my nose almost touching the sweet old stories, and I can read softly out loud, gently repeating the words the book gives me in a soft whispers, my lips moving, nearly bumping against the pages in soft kisses.
I'm lost in the brilliant words, stories, and I'm in love.