"No." He replied. "You're Sunday's spent in pyjamas and late night trips to get coffee. You're the way your eyes flutter open after a nap and the trip we took to the beach last summer. You're a lot of things," he said with a smile, "but I promise you, you are not what happened to you."
YOU ARE READING
Excerpts From The Book I'll Never Write
PoetrySomething I had to write in order to feel again.
