I was like an open book that she failed to read
I was a blank canvas, but she hated to paint
Our story — I haven't finished it yet — a masterpiece
But she chose to be continued in different books
So I cut those pages.
No story anymore... just a missing page.
They told me, "You don't know what pain is,"
But I've written every kind of pain — even death itself.
My answer? Just smile —
and I ask them, "What's your definition of pain?"
She was a chapter I was too afraid to write.
Now, she's a story I will never finish.