Ink Stained Love

My binding is broken now and my pages are scattered to the wind. My letters are smudged and distorted by the tears you cried upon me, but I still remember you as gentle and thoughtful. I remember your touch upon my pages and the warmth of your hands, I remember the days you spent scrolling upon my pages thoughtfully. I used to wonder where such prose could be birthed, for I have not imagination nor wit. They seemed never-ending and I read them, every one. As time passed something changed inside of you, I could see it in your eyes. No longer would your hands play about me, only your eyes would connect to my page. Those eyes of disappointment and self-loathing.


I do not hate you for that moment of violence; but I wish you to return to me and make me whole again.