There in a small room,
the writer lays on her bed
writing little stories, wheels turning in her head.
Across the moon sky lays the reader, lying on her back,
mind waiting for a good book to feed her.
Writer writes broken-hearted
Reader reads with feelings guarded
Coexisting in the same quandary of life
Finding themselves on the opposite ends of a sturdy rope
Woven together with the same fibers of the same hope
Both holding each other in strength from their codependency
Yet their presence might never touch
Their words might never exchange
They live on with their lives as two strangers with a
connection
In a life, in a world, in a love,
so strange.