You’re a library. You’re a museum. You’re like an art piece; something to be appreciated for the way you were painted. The little strokes and every fine detail on the canvas, I want to know. The more you talked the more I was drawn. Like gravity. I want to know everything little damn thing. You poured out so much; all your worries, your fears, your ambitions. You’re like the ocean, so deep yet so calm but filled with so much potential rage. So serene and dreamy on the surface but so much to discover beneath the very skin of yours. You have so many secrets within you, like a library with endless aisles filled with books just waiting to be discovered. So much thought and so much emotions poured into each and every story, every memory. A museum full of art, unsure if anyone who came in if they’d be appreciative or skeptical. Nevertheless you found the courage to open like a flower so eager to bloom at its righteous state. However that’s the thing about museums, not everyone will appreciate your art or your masterpieces. But you, you became a museum — my museum, that I’ve always wanted to enter  and venture and I’d never want to stop exploring. 


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