You, my dear, are a mystery.

I often leave deep crescents on the palm of my hand— leaving them throbbing a shade of crimson— whenever i get frustrated. And, well, I would be lying if I said that you didn't ever frustrate me. Hell, you frustrate me all the time.

You're a mystery not craving to be solved, but nonetheless still leaves everyone wanting to be able to find the answer to a question—unexplainable by any thing besides you.

You're a mystery and I'm just someone who wants to unravel you.