If every year wrote a page, I’d want to write a book with you

To keep me from wasting all my ink would you promise me you’d write too?

 

There will likely be some years that we won’t want to read

Bitter pages, full of rows where our words turn blue with greed

 

And yet when the other pen ends dry, the days will end with reading

We’ll read those bitter pages twice, make sense of pointless debating

 

In truth those pages make our book, for when you turn them you’re met with more

We overcame tears and sweat and tears again

Our story ends sweet, though our little book is torn