My life is a book tattered pages bound by a string of frayed ends, Stained with the stigma from spastic ink-spill But you read it so eagerly so amorously, like a child with newfound treasure, as if some value actually existed within these mangled pages You held up a mirror to show me the beauty I possessed, the beauty I never saw, a rarefied reflection in your eyes But perhaps I never saw this beauty because it was never there and only began to shine, the dwarf star metamorphosing into the supernova, the day you first kissed me.