I'm so weak.
It's sitting there
on the ottoman I love, tempting me;
smooth, cool touch against my bare foot.
I can't.
It called me
from the shelf I passed, stopping me;
scent of ink and paper reaching my nose.
I mustn't.
It landed squarely
in the cart I pushed, knowing me;
promise of new words whispering in my ear.
I lean in.
It's mocking me
in my line of sight; knowing me;
colorful spine out, drawing my eye.
I wait.
It waits too
for the goal I set, inviting me;
intentions slipping from my mind.
I don't stand a chance.
