You smell old, though you're not yet loved,
Your pages blank and perfect,
Longing for someone to touch you, caress you, want you.
You've been forgotten about,
Thrown in a pile with the rest of the unlovables.

But you're different.
You're not unlovable, not entirely forgotten.
Maybe she's just not used to this.
Has she ever shared her true feelings?
Scribbled down her innermost secrets for you to keep safe?
You dream that one day she will trust you,
But is that ever going to happen?
Is it all in vain, spending your days hung up on an unrequited love?
Maybe.

She picks you up once more,  and you will her not to let you fall.
You feel her stroke your unblemished paper, smooth to the touch.
You feel her write something down, but it's not what you want to hear.  
It's shallow, fake.
It's not a lie, but it's not everything you wish she'd tell you,
It's not everything she has to say.

She'll probably just forget you, you tell yourself, as you begin to resign to the idea.
Or maybe she's struggling too,
Maybe she wants to love you,
Maybe she wants you to be hers.
Maybe she wants you to know what's going on,
Inside the deepest caves inside her head,
Inside her heart.
But she doesn't.  

She puts you down,
And walks away,
Leaving you behind,
Forgotten.