They watch you, from your perch in the corner,
clutch the pen like a lifeline as it trembles
over a notepad. Your eyes do not blink.
Sometimes theirs glance away,
no doubt a little frightened.
I do not let them see my smile, though
I swell with pride, knowing that they will not
understand the curve of your fingers,
each absentminded stroke on the page,
every mumbled word, but
I do.

We sit on opposite sides of the room,
each writing poetry about the other.

The sun sets.
Only you and I remain, staring
at screens without noticing
them, daydreaming
of a time in which our words
might have been more than empty echoes,
our symphonies more than crooked notes
scrawled into the bedsheets.