We are all a volume on a shelf of a library,
a story unto ourselves, never possibly described
with one word or even very accurately with thousands.
A person is never as quiet or unrestrained as they seem,
or as bad or good, as vulnerable or as strong, as sweet or
as feisty; we are thickly layered, page upon lying page,
behind simple covers. And love - it is not the book itself,
but the binding. It can rip us apart or hold us together.