Don't make it a habit to twice-love.
This was a book, one that I read the pages too fast, and just
as with any books I loved, I destroyed it for the sake of understanding.
Dog-eared, scribbled, tattooed with thoughts in between lines, torn,
kissed by stain, its' spine broken in two.
I fully loved it, I gave so many signs.
You weren't on the same page I was when I had the courage for my conviction.
The waiting was painful, the kindness misunderstood.
I spent countless empty pages painted and inked to get to know you.
Before long, I had to let my muse go. I couldn't bleed it dry by just wanting.
Just how you cared for time, taking it with you with every page you touch and discard,
parts of this book do not mean itself to be understood by me,
with all my tries spent wisely,
I cared for closure and lovingly put it back on a stranger's shelf.
It was an immortalization: I cannot change and/or find changes in the second read.
