As soft as the waves crushing against the rocks and as rough as the wind against his crying face, that is you. But as alluring as a stranger’s kindness and as enchanting as the thorns on a deep black rose, that is her. And baby, as empty as the yellowed old paper presented to you but as full as the ink on the pen on the floor, that is me.
Now i intend on filling that yellowed old paper.
This time, i’ll make sure that the pen will be empty, and the paper will be overflowingly filled.
Pages to pages, and back to back, you will know, what’s in my head.
It’s my turn to tell my side of the story, the words unsaid, the feelings unattended.
I’ll let it flow.