I remember she once told me
that I'm an open book,
All the minute details, intricate
pieces, dishevelled as may be,
Are free to be read and understood.

What a shame that I found
its pages of stories torn to pieces,
Like shattered glass but
worse, now all the words and tales
are jumbled all over the floor.

It's okay, luckily I've got enough tape
to fix and stick the pieces back,
To rearrange the sentences again.
Pray, the pages are in mint condition,
For the next lovely soul to see.