The Story Of You And I

I remember the look you gave me when our eyes first met, like a child examining a present she couldn't afford or an artist falling in love with a painting she never thought she'd complete.

You allowed me to resurface from the land of the lost, breathing life into a decaying piece of work.
You explored every piece of me, as I opened your eyes and forced you to cross the line between fantasy and reality.

Words became roses and roses bloomed to meadows. You felt the wonder when we touched and took me under.

I was in the realm of your vulnerable lies, you skimmed and notated and read between my lines. As soon as the last page gave way to the cover I knew what was imminent, and I knew it meant disaster.

You were a curious little thing, dressed in innocence and authenticity when in fact you weren't planning to own me. I was a mere library book that you checked out with some cheap plastic card, stamped with a due date for you to forget and discard.

Re-shelved and forgotten, you never looked back as you picked up a new book and gave him the same look that I thought was privileged to the story of you and I.