The way I touch the words with my fingertips,

when my lips move in a sync to narrate the whole story, reminds me how your hands brushed through my hair and your touch on my fragile skin when your lips where on mine

moving in a rhythmic sync.

The quiet rustle of moving pages,

when I turn them over to get the pleasure of knowing someone's story,

reminds me how you used to love my soft wispers under your starry sky.

And finally this story ends,

Reminds me that you were there but just in dreams.

Or maybe it was all for the love of papers filled with inks.