I feel like an old, fragile book
Falling apart... Flourished love fading from my spine.
Every pointless conversation with some pompous pretentious peacock leaving dark red circles on my pages.

I can feel myself tearing at the seams
Wind stealing the rustling pages of my dreams
All because you're not here

God might be the authentic, artistic author...

But you are the reader

your delicate eyes, woo each syllable.
You're the reason manicured, savage nails haven't been able to tear pages so feeble

You are not the writer... But the reason my story was written in the first place

You are the reader

Every swirl, curl and loop designed to carress your mind
Every drop of ink, perfectly shaded to match your eyes

You are the reader

The one who turns solemn pages into a fluttering melody
Giving the disarray of letters meaning

And I can't wait to feel your soft hands tracing my cracked spine
Your careful finger tips tracing every word and line.
I can't wait to behold you unfold every story untold.

I can't wait for you, to climb back into my world of words.

Because somehow you read this book,

When it ran out of prose, woes and poems.

even when it's left abandoned by fancy idioms and metaphors

Indescribable ink dancing no more.

You read this story... When all there was, was a blank, bland, bare block of white
Beckoning for you to complete it.

And when asked why...

You simply said , "because I am the reader"