I lay on my back and I opened up to you, Like a book lying on its spine. It’s pages spread apart, You rubbed the coarse paper in between your fingers, Sliding down the edges even though you knew you would get a paper cut. You turned the pages ever so softly, Careful as to not let a crease happen. My soul danced around your fingers, My body shook beneath the words you whispered to me, I spilled my secrets like the jumbled words on white sheets of spilled ink. I was your novel and I couldn’t be more happy to let you construct the sentences of our slow, Unwinding, 600 page book.