The delicate, velvet paper
And the silky pen of a writer;
There, they lie, on the table,
Untouched, unscribbled.
Through the windows,
A gust of wind blows,
Disturbs a profound silence
To fill the room with romance.
Outside, leaves are falling all around,
The rain starts pouring gently, with no sound.
Inside, her heart slowly melts,
Lost in a daze she knows best.
He whispers to her
Softly, in a murmur,
The words he’s waited years to say.
Feeling the moment, she turns away.
Tears fall down her lovely face;
Some things shouldn’t be said.
Now is too late,
We can’t play with fate.
He takes her hand, and she, the pen.
She has to write on the paper.
He needs to know her despair.
But he won’t let go.
And so remains the paper,
All blank; just like the world of a loner.
She can’t write for him after all
For he won’t understand
That there was a time
That she liked him dearly.
But the rain has stopped.

-20/02/2011