You passed me your Bible with a scowl on your face. One that said, "I can't believe in all these months, you never e-mailed me, never phoned. I can't believe you let us get this way". It was a face of disapoitnment, of hurt and loneliness.

I knew what you wanted in the Bible; you wanted the truth. But you didn't want God's truth, you wanted my truth.

Still scowling, I smiled and asked, "Where shall I write?"

"Page nine."

I flipped through your Bible, past Matthew, Psalms, Joshua, Genesis, right to the end of the Preface, where there was 3/4 of a page empty. I took the pen from your hands, and started writing, like it was a book. "I mi..."

Then I stopped. I had only one thing to say, and writing it in a neat line, at the top of the empty space will leave it left, forgotten.

Instead, I moved my pen to the centre of the page, and in a semi-circle, waving outwards, I wrote "I miss you". I spun the Bible around, and facing towards the top of the page and wrote again. And again. And again.

Before long, your Bible was littered with my truth; the fact that I miss you, and soon after, the tears to prove it too.

You took your Bible back from me to read what was going on, how I had defaced such a holy and perfect book. You had no reaction.