Eve was a myth created out of Adam’s rib. Just the way I exist as an extension of you, when you scribbled me to life on a singularly routine and lonely night. Your ink pulses in my veins, your nib defines the boundaries of my body and behaviour. My mind is the blank page you pierce to life with the spaces between your words. I have become your written, edited, erased and rephrased, the manifestation of your longing. Then, you slyly slip a bookmark in, leaving me interrupted. Until you pick up that pen, my existence runs in a loop.
Ink me back to you.