One morning, over coffee, in a well lit breakfast nook, with toast crumbs on her lips,

and sleep fading from her eyes-she’ll be abruptly brave and ask you if any of the words scribbled in the  bent notebook you carry around and never share, are for her.

“Do you write about me?” The hit of the question will leave you  dazed. A response well deserved will not come….and she will sigh, and stand up,walk out of the well lit room and you won’t ask her to stay.

A long distance runner in the obstacle course of your communication skills, and she is getting tired.

Tired of your withdrawn ability to only filter emotion through a pen to a page.

“I don’t know why you have lips” she said once, laughing with a hint of hurt So, you pressed your face to her throat and made her remember how speech isn’t always necessary.

What she doesn’t know… and what you can’t seem to tell her, is that she is in you so she is every word.

She is every word you write and that is nothing you can say.

Instead you leave the notebook in the rocking chair by the window, with her favorite view,

of a stream beyond a field. “It reminds me that moments can stop whole hours” she said once,

and that was a line you worked words around for years.

You rip a page and leave it folded inside “Just keep reading”