She wanted all the colors in the palette box.
But they stayed just out of reach.
Only black was meant for her
so she wore it like armor,
and taught herself to live with it.

Like all stories that come to an end, he became the fiction to her poetry

She’s never really noticed.
She sits, and she’s invisible.
People pass, but no one really sees her.

Wherever she goes,
it’s the same.

She’s used to the silence,
used to being the background,
the empty chair,
the forgotten space.

But then one day,
someone notices.
Her seat is empty,
and he feels it.

He sees her studying in the lounge.
He asks,
“Where were you yesterday?”

And those words
so small,
so simple
meant everything.

She was noticed.
She mattered.
He noticed her.

And for the first time,
her heart stirred
not just because she was seen,
but because it was him.

She sits
in her favorite spot,
sipping coffee
one sip at a time.
Reading her book,
lost in another world.

He passes by,
glancing at her,
wanting to say something,
but thinking she never notices.
He tells himself,
She’s too far lost
between the pages.

But she feels his presence.
When he looks away,
she looks at him
in awe,
how beautiful he is.

She wonders,
Does he know?
That her book stopped making sense
after the first glance.

Some eyes will touch the very essence of your soul

He is the whisperer breaking the silence between my thoughts.
He is the ink that colors the page I write.
He is the feeling behind every line I craft.
He is the pulse in my rhyme scheme.
He is the imagery that dances in my mind.
He is more than just words—he is poetry.