There's a story behind her eyes.
One that I love to read.
I study each word,
say them aloud,
roll them off my tongue.
It's a novel of love and loss,
pain and lies.
The pages, torn and burnt,
I keep turning them.
I can't stop my compulsion.
She lets me. Asks me to.
She wants to be read.
To be understood.
I gaze into her chronicle and smile,
forgetting she's reading mine.