Him: I don't fell like talking to anyone today aside from my notebook.
Her: Pretend I'm your note book. Inscribe me, scrawl into my skin, my ears, my soul of yearning heat. I'll be the paper your words consume, like a fire in the hot desert, I'll burn under your sweet caress.
Her: Pretend I'm your note book. Inscribe me, scrawl into my skin, my ears, my soul of yearning heat. I'll be the paper your words consume, like a fire in the hot desert, I'll burn under your sweet caress.
