The old diary that has been long forgotten, with its dusty cover and yellowing pages.
A piece of paper was keeping a page.
It was a poem that was made thirthteen years ago. Words tremendously beautiful, too beautiful, I would still be in love with them no matter how many years has passed.
You are the poem and I am the old diary.
You are the spilled ink written on my paper heart.
I keep you safe between my pages.
