My fingers graze the back of the page on which I spilled my soul. I run them over the indentations where my pen carved my feelings into the pure, white, sheet. How is it that such an act could be considered normal? I am destroying what was once so pure! No longer a blank wonderland, it is now mottled with the formation of my words.
Can you forgive me for ruining such a soul to cleanse my own? Can't I pay the price? Only if you knew my tongue, would you be able to decipher what is hidden here, decode my words.
I could fall asleep with him in my arms, so pure and innocent, and planning to keep it that way. I can't carve my words into such a gentle being, I couldn't bring myself to do it. Will this world ever realize that feelings aren't for sale? No amount of wealth could destroy or rebuild the pain underneath my ribs. I can't advertise myself enough for him to see what he needs to see, and that is my words.
I could fall asleep with you in my arms. I could create a novel out of your skin. Your eyes are poetic and and ingenious, please, let me make something of them. With each touch I could create a word, one that no one has heard before, and with our own graceful gestures and my lips upon yours, we could make our own language, one we won't have to teach, one that we'll bury soon after we make it, only to start fresh again. Oh, think of the life I could build for you, filled with wonderful legends and sorrow. The cornerstone for this expanding universe could only be cut from my words.
And in your soul I could create such lore, stories to be retold again and again. Oh, if only you'd let me, if only my gift wasn't a sin. Wish I do that these little weapons inside of me wouldn't cause so much so much pain for you. But they are begging to be spilled. No, not even for you can I contain my words.
To smudge such a beautiful canvas with the ink of midnight delicate. I swear, the only feeling in the room will be the ever-so-slight pressure of my pen on the pure white sheet, carving sentences and claiming what's mine and mine alone. But if it is claimed, not created, can one truly declare ownership? I realize now that the only things I have to call my own are my words.
Meet my eyes with yours and define to me "cliffhanger" as I walk the walk of pride out of the room, down the hallway, and out of your sight, leaving you, my love, my life, my light, to not be fictionalized by my words, but to be free and be your own.