"oh yeah, and he likes to write."

that's all i had to hear.
and my mind was sent into a tumbling abyss,
a mess of words and sentences not quite put together.
and i can't help but wonder,
what ails him?
what causes him to put his pen to paper,
to write the unsaid words just resting on his lips.

i could imagine it would be flowery,
a sugar-coated image of the world,
because whatever he is seeing, it's beautiful.
and i want in, i want to see what he sees, feel what he feels.

but i can't.
he likes science because
it explains the complexities of the earth,
it showcases its beauty.
and i can't see that beauty
in anything but him
and those eyes that are seeing otherwise.

and oh,
how i long to read those words scratched out in ink