A delicate touch on my skin.

How long has it been

since someone softly caressed me?

A touch so unknown,

yet Comfort finds their home.

As you trace the ink on my skin,

your eyes rake down my body,

drinking all of me in,

as if you have not drunk a drop of water 

for as long as you’ve been.

Your fingers on me,

feel like the first sunbeams that grace a leaf,

after a particularly gloomy day.

And I’m left squirming in my place,

baring to you all that I am as I lay,

 

Something akin to a smile forms on your face

and as you move to turn the page

I’m reminded harshfully of my place.

I am but a page in a book for you,

while to me you are my whole book.

You are the moment I have yearned for ever since my birth.

For you to caress my pages,

for you to direct a simple gaze towards me,

that is my life’s purpose,

nothing more and nothing less than that.

Still, I find myself foolishly longing for more.

 

Clinging to my friend,

my competition,

with desperation I have never felt before,

I try to stall the moment your eyes leave mine

and I’ll be left alone again for God knows how long.

A frown paints your delicate features,

and I want to rip out my pages for being the painter.

You move with such haste, my dear,

and I would be lying if I said it does not hurt.

Are you in such a hurry to get rid of me?

To move on to the next one who will gaze adoringly at you?

You tear me apart from my friend,

and I want to beg of you to just tear all of me up.

Triumph paints your face,

becoming the showpiece of my gallery.

My misfortune becomes your fortune,

becomes my fortune.

Has it become clear to you, dear,

why I cannot despise you?

Why there is happiness woven in with my dread and fear?

 

As you hold me,

oh so softly,

for the last time in your delicate hands,

I wish I could cry,

for the first time in my life.

‘Goodbye’, 

I want to shout,

I want to whisper,

I want to cry out.

You slam over the page,

Muting any words I still wished to say,

That were not yet decorating my pages.