How I wanted to be the pages of your diary, so I could inhale the smoky thoughts of your tough little mind. How I'd like to go from page to page and to go back again, to link all the ink and to know you to the bones.
No. I'd like to know no words. I don't want the bullshit, just the medicine to the pain, the arrow to the heart. Understanding, silly concept. It must be wrong.
How can I possibly want to find the under-sea treasures of your waters if I can't even sink in mine without drowning?
Mend it for me, paper. Mend it. I'll try once again. I may change the ink, I may move on some pages. I'll fail again, I'll smudge all the history like I always do. But please,mend it.
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