I tend to make stories
Out of everything,
Passing glances
From a pair of eyes
Across cars
While standing at the toll.
The crook of a neck
Bent to search
A fallen coin
At the store line
Among impatient taps
Of feet.
Across the sunset
And about the light that travels
Millions of miles
Just to land on
Your hands
Shielding your eyes
From the glare.
Of pain and happiness
I weave stories
Despite meeting none
Satisfactorily.
I wish to add
Vivid words
To match
The vivid lines
In your palms.
I nod at songs
Written ages ago
In sync with another century
Rather than my own.
I don't want to speak
And break this pregnant silence.
So I'll just look into
Those soulful eyes
And craft tales
To satisfy
My need
To romanticise.