He is the author and I am the page.
He delicately raises his pen, dancing ink across the paper.
I become a bittersweet story of romance and rapture.
He hastily scribbles syllables on the white sheets where I lay limp.
I am the story stretching over an expanse of paper,
unmoving and unchanging,
and he is apart of me.
Building personality into each paragraph.
Sharing secrets through written sentences.
Our story is one of miraculous adoration,
and ultimately, of devastating downfall.
His head throbs in frustration at the unhappy ending I reveal before him.
The deepest black ink from my pages sink into his calloused hands,
hands that ache as intensely as my heart beats for them.
I cry out as my pages are torn from their binding.
He paces about the room,
while I fall from my ripped seams onto the unkempt floor.
His eyes burn agonizingly as they stare into the wreck I have become,
into the tragic ending,
of our story.