If our love were a book, We’d be on the first few pages

Where everything smells of 

Freshly opened packaging

With each page crisp

And immaculately white. 
But, oh, how I know

How this will all end

Because I’ve opened many 

Books such as this

And no matter how careful I am 

The binding bends.
Pages get torn, smudged, 

Folded and marked.

Words that started out so

Beautifully begin making 

Less and less sense.

And I lose my interest,

Never finishing till the end. 
I promise myself that next time

I’ll pick a better book. 

That I’ll try harder to finish

Until the very last page. 

Maybe I’m just an eternal hopeful. 

Or maybe, I just like opening new things. 

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