Picture.

I see your brown eyes. I see the old blue slippers on your feet. The torn jeans, the white shirt. Your favourite. Folded sleeves end at the elbows, the watch on your wrist. Your hair is ruffled, ah, the wind. The leaves behind you are a dull shade of green. Your backpack lies by your feet. A faded black with a broken zip. The word 'Radiohead', written by me. I can see you're holding a book. My book. To Kill A Mockingbird. You're on your way to meet me, in your car. You take a picture of yourself to show me. Seven feet away from the car, the camera on the top of the windshield. Self-click. Perfect you look.

I've painted you. Picture of a picture. The last picture I have of you.

Liar.

From where I see it, you have no place for me. You have too many friends, you have too much company. You can't even see me standing there, right there, in front of you. Yet, you say you love me. You say you need me. You say I keep you sane. From where I see it, you are a liar.

The Wheel.

Round and round in circles we go. Round and round the wheel turns. The wheel eventually hits a rock and stops. When will we? You say you love me and I know you do. Why then can you not show it? We lose track. We lose our love.

The story of how we met.

A walk in the dark. I find you. Your hands hold me, I feel them around my waist. I smell you. You're here. My hands run up your arms, your neck. I pull you closer, close. No words. Just us. Breathing. You remind me of things I've only dreamt. You are what I've only dreamed of. If you were to leave now, right now, would it mean that I'm still dreaming? You always leave in my dreams. And sometimes, my dreams are incomplete. The ringing alarm, the barking dog, the loud pigeon, outside. Inside, it's you. And me.

Next morning.

I see you on the chair. I see you reading that book. Are you just another character from that book? You say, No. I'm here. You can see me, can't you? And then you smile. The smile the author described. The smile that causes the wrinkles under your eyes. The smile that makes me blush. You tell me a story. The story of how we met.

"I was sitting on a wooden desk. The faded wooden top, with stains of coffee splattered here and there. The edges smooth from use. Writings on the desk. Faded. Old. I sit there waiting. And then you walk in. You come up, walk past the others and reach me. You smile. You read me, you learn me. You always say you've become a part of me. But darling, it is you who made me."

You close the book and show me the author's name. My name.