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.
Can I be the protagonist of your story?
