Last night I poured a page of my past out to you. I wrote it down, word for word, tear by tear, scar by scar. It was just one page, but it was the opening chapter, a prologue of sorts, one of the most important parts to read before engaging in the body. If not for that page, the rest of this story is a lot harder to make sense of, and I knew, eventually, you would want to read the whole book.
You quietly listened, hanging on to each word, interjecting only with a touch or a sigh. It was your way of turning the pages, not forcefully or rushed, but with a slow motion, drawing out the truth and letting each sentence soak into your mind.
When I finished the chapter we stopped and we breathed. We breathed hard and heavy and our words were so much richer through the knowledge we now shared. Our hug had never been tighter, our words had never meant more. You read me, you listened to me, and I allowed you to.
You cried with me, you held me close, then you stroked my skin to sleep.