It’s funny how I always write in you but never for you.
And it’s surprising how you never complain while I fill your pages with the nonsensical jumble of words. All that belong to my unshaped thoughts and claim to call it a “draft”.
No matter how much I revise a draft to make it perfect, the one inside you will always be it’s purest form. Just like our bond.
You know the secrets of my wild times and the rants of my sad nights, also the time when I fell, and the time when I rose high.
You live in a shelf, hidden from the world but today I’ll make sure you’re known.
Your flawless cover is now adorned with my name and the favorite fandoms but I know you are “you” at heart.
And that’s what makes me trust you with my poems and the plots.
And honestly, if it weren’t you with me everywhere I went, my thoughts would always stay a thought.
So thank you for being you and bearing my pen strokes and tears. You’ve made me what I am.