A raging fire before us,
That lit the spark,
Between us.
The spark was kindled unto flame,
Sputtered,
And died for a while.
But was relit.
There was a blank page before us,
Our story written by some other.
The page was slowly filled.
Ink ran blood-red.
Words,
Sentences,
Paragraphs.
Blank spaces.

Our story is an odd one,
Still being written.
There is ink in the other's pen,
And life in the characters' veins.
I,
The naive,
Emboldened by you,
The enigmatic.
And I can't quite figure you out.
But perhaps the other can.
Our story has not ended;
There are blank pages before us still.