You claim you want to read of me, the mystery scribed in broken prose. My smile is a run-on sentence punctuated by the amber exclamation of my eyes. The hand scribbled notes along the margin are my vulnerable tears. My fingerprint follows the cursive script of a love that runs out of ink just before intermission. The denouement is only my beginning. You will be my conclusion, a dramatic flair that tumbles from my lips as a sacred prayer. Curtains close on the darkest chapters that can only be revealed under your hands as one deciphers Braille. Still want to read me?