You once claimed I was an open book, easy to read. Little did I know how inaccurate that was. There's no order or timeline to your memories in my story. On two occasions, to be exact, I questioned the little voice in my head. Perhaps, deep down, I already know the answer.
I wrote a story for you and I on two different pages.
I sit back, allowing my life to linger in anticipation of the page-turning to unveil a new chapter. For now, I remain clueless about what I truly want...
