[tracilicious]

Sometimes when I'm reading, I feel as though I have a phoenix sitting in my lap. I feel my fingertips singe as I open the cover, the first sparks of his pyre already igniting. The fire burns slowly at points, barely a crackle. Other times it burns so bright and hot that my eyes can only focus on the blue bright flame. Feathers of words burn off and flitter around me as I fly and bounce over the text.

The more I read the more the fire blazes the nakeder my regal bird gets. Until finally, I'm staring at the last sentence and my phoenix is sitting vulnerable in the ashes of the dust jacket. We stare at each other for a while, then we look away for a while, then he flutters back to his shelf while I stare at traffic and try to digest what just happened between us.

I shoot him lingering glances as I pass by, trying to discern if we're ready for another go. Sometimes his plumage is bright and beautiful again right away and we dive right back in. Other times he needs a month or more to recover, so I pass the time with travel literature and organic cookbooks, waiting for him to call. Then there are the times when I've gotten a bit too close to the fire, so I ignore his phoenix song, unable to bear the pain of the heat again so soon.

Eventually though, I unfailingly approach him and extend my arm for him to perch on and we sit down again together, ready to burn and be left naked once again.