It began in the darkest of times. An evening unpredictable and cold. A curiosity blossomed. There was no sudden infatuation, yet something sparked deep within.

You opened my book like pages familiar to your finger tips. As if you had seen each word before. You read my mind, caressed the sound of the paragraphs and formed a conclusion to which I did not write.

You took the pages as your own. Brimmed with a lust for the fantasy we would create. You brought me back to life. Your description of myself was unforeseen, unrealistic. A flurry of emotion flushed through my veins as I peeled open the cover.

A book. Framing the life I once lived. Allowing the world to see the impact you carried on my soul. Believing that you could save me from myself. With ink stained hands, I remember the way you made my heart soar. With a summer breeze, I float through the skies on pages boasting with laughter and love. And on fall leaves, I return to the Earth to be buried beneath the story I once believed.

My favorite story. A story of love, laughter and a quiet end. For which I will cherish through eternity.

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