Me
Sometimes I'm scared that when I'll be done writing you on these pages we won't be able to spend these moments anymore. I don't want to lose you. So I'm wondering if I should stop all of this now, stop tracing those letters to keep whatever is left of your perfume, of your smile.
She
You'll only have to read yourself, and I'll come back to you, we'll be together for a few hours. I'll feel your soft hands holding the book, your finger tips running accross my pages.
Me
I'm sorry. The more I ink you, the more I kill you. Can you feel my pen scorching your back, piercing your eyes? Your body is covered in ink and I can't touch you.
She
You're thinking too much. To die in your arms is all I'm asking for.
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