But it has always been that way. I don't know who taught me that, or if it has always been written in the stars like that. But if they haven't lived their life twice I lived my life, I won't even bat an eye.

I told you that, and you shakes your head like you think I'm creating a philosophical bullshit! But I'm not. I'm not intelligent enough to talk about the meaning of life and what entails to fucking men my dad's age. It is just as simple as a preference.

It's no surprise, really. Everyone knew that! My friends know that. My mum knows that. Hell, I think you can read it on my forehead just like that.

I've always been an open book. I've got not much of pages in me, I'm still growing, I got blank papers and really nice, smooth, flawless edges you can dig your teeth into.

Wouldn't you like that? Wouldn't you like folding the corners after you read me? Wouldn't you like leaving your marks in between the stitch, leave it where you last read, leave it between me? Wouldn't you wet your thumb and turn me over, and read me more, seek more, see more?

I'm not studious. I don't really like reading books. But I see you between the nights sitting there on your wingback chair, only in your white singlet, half-rimmed glasses perched upon your nose, and a book loosely put on your lap, the moonlight shines upon your greying hair.

Bedazzling.

I say come on, it's alright. Who cares if you've gone through several old books or writing some? You got a new fresh print, its baby breath-like scent hasn't even leaving the rim.

It's alright. I know your wife, anyway. She wouldn't mind. I'm dying to have some of this beautiful mind.