Pages in the wind

Dawn froths over. Like boiling milk under a long low flame. In stealth.

I wake up. It's not time yet. My eyelids are heavy with sleep. But I pick up the book. With each word, I near its end. Yet, I read. The words rain over my parched soul. And soon I am not here. I am in the pages, rolling along each line into a trenchant, yet happy oblivion. And then my dear friend departs. In haste I pick up a substitute.

An aid. A distraction.