It is you with whom I speak, when the pen becomes my voice.
When the cell bars of this prison-like mind slide open,
you are the haven I seek under the full moon at 3 a.m.
The ink grooves between your sheets hold the essence of my words, 
and that is where I have buried my treasures.

It is where I have hidden my stories.

Your blank lines are my therapist, 

and it is within them that I find the freedom to share my stories.

My characters are born from scribbles about your margins. 
My dialogues are created in the smallest of blank spaces, 
and Writer’s block scratches plots after every other line.
Casualties of literary war.

They are scenes I've watched on repeat, and it is you with whom I share them all.

From the timid press of lips in a young lover's first kiss, 

to a street punk’s first fight.

I’ve shown you it all.

I’ve shown you castles, winged-women, and blood thirsty beasts.
I've shown you desolation, redemption, and hope.
You've heard the bloody cries of civil wars,

and seen the mystic beings that dwell in forests. 
You've seen broken children become fierce and valiant warriors, and
mankind fight their way from the brink of extinction.
Sometimes I wonder if I show you too much.
If I've pushed you too many times.
Too much attention has left not only a curve in your spine, but your leather aged. 
For that I am sorry, but
the scratches between the lines of your body
are just words my tongue hasn't found the courage to say aloud.
You preserve my thoughts,
as the pen reanimates my dreams,

because, though I might be the storyteller,
 you, are my stories.

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