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
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
of a time in which our words
might have been more than empty echoes,
our symphonies more than crooked notes
scrawled into the bedsheets.