I Swear, This Time I Mean It

Baby, I'm a dreamer for sure.

I'm writing, and writing, and writing, and now that I've started, I don't know how to stop.

It was so easy to keep it turned off, like an old rusted faucet. But you came and polished me up, not all at once but in a slow, gradual way. Instead of being completely covered with brittle brown layers, there are a few new shiny spots. Water droplets of words are building up in me, beginning to pour out into the empty bucket that is the notebook you gave to me.

You're piecing me back together, slowly but surely. I'm a mosaic in the works, you're the artist forming me. And for that, there's nothing I can do but to thank you.