Blank Pages

This book is the love in your life scripted.

This book with blank pages.
This book with ruled lines of painful black.
This book stunningly monochrome.
This book waiting in anticipation for you to write.

This book a canvas, wistful white.
Ready for ink to be pressed.
A tattoo for life.

This book of sweet leather, wrapped like a protector.
This book carved with patterns of peaceful pain.
This book entrusted with the title of ‘Love’.
This book a friend, a piece of soul.

It lies await, for a sentence to be written.
A phenomenon.
Each sentence is a new relationship.
Each relationship the pages will cherish.

But. Every sentence will end.
With a period, or full stop if you may.
Abrupt or smooth.
In life or death.

Whether you want it to not.
Short and sharp, or run-on.
Lust or mutuality.
It will shift your future.

Each chapter is a year.
Each year in an end.
Each year is a beginning.
Each year is to be lived and scripted.

This book could be filled.
Exploding with passion.
Page after page.
Sentence after sentence.
Word after word.
Letter after letter.

This book could be half-filled.
But sharp, seductive sentences contained.
This book could be blank.
Nothing but one could be inked.

You choose the words for this book.
You choose the length of the sentence.
You choose when it ends.
The pen is in your hand.