I am not an open book;
I am not an easy read.

you pried open my cover,
and engraved your name on the sleeve.

ink bleeding through the layers,  
pure white pages made unclean.

you wrote down a story,
and I let myself believe.

the warmth of an embrace
from the depths of her soul
yet slick like oil
and all that slithers
between every crack
and every place
the light touches
in its soft
luminescent
caress
each kiss blooms a delicate blossom
in a garden of words
but withers with the seasons
when she leaves.