I'm busy reading you, page by page
Word by word; the more I read the more I can't help but to notice,
how each page is tear stained, blood soaked and smells old

The old kind in a library that no one anymore goes to
The depressive kind that no one finds time to
But I really love your pages and while I read between them ;
I'm equipped with the finest thread,
I'm sewing the missing pieces, I'll fix you.

The more I touch, I'm slowly breaking too ; I don't mind

I can be broken with you.