I want to find my other half. My soul mate. The one person who can supply me with more happiness than sadness. I know, I wish to find love. The equal, unconditional, passionate sort of love. I can only wait, wait for it to come to me. Maybe I have to wait till I deserve it. I have to wait till love finds me. Or maybe I have to wait till I have stopped waiting. Once the search is over and I am left with the treasure of someone, I must know everything. I must absorb the good and the bad of them and then project the good and the bad of me. I must understand. Understand their fears, their insecurities, understand everything. I want to know them inside and out, backwards to front- every crease and every fold, every leap and every halt. I want it all. And in return, my gift is an open book. That way you can see me in every light, the sunshine and the rain, the inbetweeness and the emptiness of the ink stained, partly shredded pages that I offer. I am not a box, you cannot limit my existence in a piece of cardboard meant to hold objects, not people; but instead, you can read each page of me, each memory, each regret and then interpret them in whichever way you desire. I have words written all over me, sometimes seen in my eyes or in the cracks of my painted lips. I am ink. An opposite. A black and white novel, searching for my sequel.