Our own desires sit false on the page. Stewed in our longings since memories born, there is a tedium to our cravings, and scorn for all the outstretched arms you have torn.

All passions come in a bespoke flavour, it's tailored to the pattern of your sight, my dreams are just saliva in my mouth, but yours can offer never-ending light.

So, I give to thee sacrifice of page, in the hope to bring back taste to your food, in hope you'll see my friendship coming through, in hope one day I'll soften down your mood.