If I could be in any book, I would want your curves to be my pages. My fingers would smooth themselves carefully over your corners, though I’d find it difficult to believe you had any straight edge on you. Your spine would bind each story, and each moment of blissful happiness coupled against each moment of unadulterated sadness would be caught bump by bump, crease by crease. Your jaw would click together my words – gently, slowly, hesitantly, patiently – and soon, you would learn my language.
Goosebumps would become Braille and whispers would become ellipsis. Your eyes would be described in ten chapters, and even then, I’d only learn about your left pupil. I’d spend days trying to quote your laughter, which would be little more than hahehaheeha to anyone else. Like everything that has been written, I’d be able to condense each page and each sentence, each word and each comma, into three words.
And even then, I might be saying too much.
Other times, I’d be speechless and there would be pages left blank. Nights of drinking Smirnoff and lime and making pasta would be scribbled in between the margins and the leftover kisses from red lipstick pressed a bit too hard would be plastered right in the centre. Doodles of dreams lost and forgotten would be drawn without reason or rhyme, just because you could never be bothered to order them. They’d be circled and highlighted, crossed out and underlined. Beside each one, I’d write: open your eyes, and you would, and I’d keep reading in between the lines we’ve drawn.
After the bulk of pages would slowly dwindle and your hair would fall in between each crevice like a flower to be pressed in order to last forever, we would reach the end. Maybe we’d be old. Maybe we’d be in tears. Foreshadowing didn’t help us in figuring it out. But I know that we’d have a book, and I’d be in it, and you’d be in it, and after it is all done because all books must end, we’d look up and realize that everyone is still going on with their lives, and we will too, someway, somehow. Because a book will eventually collect dust, and so will we, but it is those memories we shared inside that matter.
There’d be that time when I first tried to pay for you and you said no. That time at four a.m. and we could’t sleep. That time when I slept in your arms all day. That time we stood atop of a waterfall and held hands for the first time. That time in Paris. That time we felt, we smiled, we played. Inside, there’d be everything we did and didn’t and why there had to be a difference between the two. There’d be us, and that’d be more than anything we could pen down anyways.