and this ink and paper truth,
does nothing to ease my wariness,
she is nothing without her words,
she is no one.
She awakes again,
in the night,
the sheets are twisted,
her hands entangled tightly in them.
She thinks of him,
of his words,
for only she knows them.
Slowly she drifts back to sleep,
infinite calm awaits her,
and she is driving down an empty road,
that goes on as far as she can see.
Her writing suffers,
and love ballads echo distantly,
but there is no one,
but her and her words.
"I couldn't think of the right words," she said desperately.
"I know," he said with confidence, "that's why I gave them to you."