I remember the night I spilled between your binding.
I remember the way I liquified and
I don't know if I was ink to add to your tale or water to destroy your efforts,
but I remained just the same.
I like to think that you found comfort in my placement on your parchement
or in the way my calligraphy mingled with your Times New Roman narrative.
I like to think that beginning at page 2 and ending up at page 54 meant that you wanted me to stay.
Was I a prologue, a plot, an epilogue perhaps?
Did I question your what's and who's with enough why's and when's to make me dynamic?
Did my straight lines patiently hover your dots in a way that made you anticpate our dialogue?
I wish I could say that I have all of the writing prompt answers,
but this is your story,
If anything at all we are a mix-matched pattern of fonts appraoching an epilepsis
we may be out of pages, but maybe we are not.
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