I want to be your favorite novel.

I want you to read my body language, And then reread my body language, And then reread it an infinite amount of times over, As if it was the first moment you ever heard my story.

I want you to dog-ear my pages so as to signal the parts of me you always want to come back to, even the places where I am stained.

Some stains are just coffee, for all the nights I have stayed up waiting for my dreams to not be dreams.

Some stains are bloody too, whether it be the penetrating darkness or trying to dump the body of my past self, thinking he was never deserving of a bright future.

I want you to hold my spine as if not wanting all the contents to fall out onto the floor, or as if my secrets were treasured gifts that you never wanted to let go of your grasp from.

The knick-knacks on your shelves must envy me, for I sit laying there either by the nightstand within reach or at the foot of the bed. I'll admit I was surprised when you had only glimpsed my synopsis or when your eyes merely skimmed my prologue, and suddenly you never wished to admire my font at a distance from that point on.

I'm realizing that it only takes one good chapter to make me forget the words embedded into my skin from the others. This tale has page numbers that grow with each passing day. I lost count a long time ago until I could've sworn when you said my name that this was page one once again.