The first time I opened our book, I wanted to read the whole thing in a minute.
I tried but there were only blank pages, before those, something about we are pens meant to write the rest.
And I wrote often, often in hidden ink because of my distrust for a positive conclusion, sharing all of my thoughts and devotion.
Was I right to conceal some of my love? I think so, off-page we go, and our bookmarks wither every hour we’re apart.
Accentuated moments, yes highlighted for an easy search, remain in my library in hardcover.
I couldn’t put our story down but these last chapters have been, bittersweet, twists from wild ink, settling on pages hidden from your main story.
Shall I close this text confident in its end without seeing it through? Another dead-stop drop off fascinating account of vanishing hands once clasped.
