The book of our love.

 When I said "we need to talk", 

I was asking for your help,

 your love, your input, your phrases, and arguments.

 I knew we had fallen off the same page,

I wanted to ask you to make some revisions.

But you just closed the book.

You didn't want to finish the story.

You pulled the pages out and threw them in the fire.

I was on those pages. 

I was on the ones that went in the bin.

I was on the ones that were thrown into the wind.

I was on the ones that were crumpled and discarded.

I'm writing a new book now. 

But you still mark the pages. 

Like a stain, a water mark made of tears.

There's still more to be written. 

The single volume you destroyed still informs the series.

Writing you out of the story hasn't been as easy. 

I've made mistakes that can't be erased, 

but they are in that other book.

This one is still a rough draft,

but writing it without collaboration hasn't been easy.

Your editing isn't kind and it isn't constructive. 

I want to build. 

What is your new book going to say?