Yours was only a hand, delicate and gentle.
Mine was only a waist, never pampered by touch or love.
It was but a silly heart, pounding against my chest.
It was only a kiss, under the stars, in the pouring moonlight.

A little book,
Embossed in gilded paisley swirls,
Bound with string,
Casting its shadow on that shelf.

A dark book,
Filled with muttered words,
Jet thoughts,
An inky spectre on that shelf.

The little dark book,
Paisley words and muttered swirls,
Jet bound string,
The inky spectre that shadows myself.

sometimes
the script is already written.
sometimes it's ad lib.