You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis. You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.
I won’t do you the dishonour of writing you in something that stains forever. I’ll follow your winding heart—its changing patterns—its constant going and un-going. I will write you in lead, in chalk, in breathy sighs.