The hardcover has turned to paper back,
The words emerge from everything I lack.
The pages are tattered and torn,
With erased I love yous that were written once before.
The print is soft and faded,
Filled with people who are now in different places;
There is no one left to fill up the empty spaces.
I guess I’m just an open book with nothing to my name,
The beginning might have been different, but the end is always the same.
fromthehartman 