There must have been a hundred pages,
Scented with the love I've been dreaming of every day.
So it is true that I read all of them before sleep sometimes,
Just once in a little while,
Slowly like the way I long to caress your lips.
And the softness of your touch haunts my every dream,
Like this longing I have of you,
Burning ever so precariously in this moment of my heart.