A Commonplace Book

On his deathbed my father is reading
The memoirs of Casanova.
I'm watching the night fall,
A few windows being lit across the street.
In one of them a young woman is reading
Close to the glass.
She hasn't looked up in a long while,
Even with the darkness coming.

While there's still a bit of light
I want her to lift her head,
So I can see her face,
Which I have already imagined,
But her book must be full of suspense.
And besides, it's so quiet,
Every time she turns a page
I can hear my father turn one, too,
As if they were reading the same book.