He reads me like the book he flips through pages at night when he can't sleep, and he thinks that he can't ever temper with the story, when he changes it every time his fingers run down the sides of the pages.
He sees the wrinkles, he tries to help because he won't close the covers till they are planate, and the soaked papers dry.
In all the wonders he can transact, to my heart he did best. He is still at it, making ours a freakishly beautiful drawn story on this wide canvas he calls 'forever'. Forever that is never enough for him, for us. He keeps on adding pages, and papers, attaching them to the still life.
If one day things don't work out, it might then be a story that souls in love would come to venture.
