tired and soft

Her eyes captured him like no other, the passing carriages like clouds parting on a rainy day and through the drizzle their eyes met if only for a moment, and then, she smiled.

Now he knows what that smile was, predatory, she had found her next target, but then? Oh he remembers the warmth that flooded his face, the shaky awkward smile he returned and the nervous wave he'd later admonish himself for.

He thought himself in love at the time, he spent days writing poems for a woman he'd never met, a wealthy woman at that if her lace filled dress was anything to go by. His family was nothing in regards to nobility, they only had the coin they did due to being the only grave diggers in town; he remembers back when his father could still laugh without coughing up blood, how they would share a laugh about their last name, Gravestone, how ironic it was. It doesn't matter anymore of course, but he worked more then he had when his father needed medicine just to save for good paper and a legitimate quill of good quality just so he could write that horrid woman poetry.

Oh the flowery words he'd weave late at night with only a candle for light, he had only seen her through a window once and he was writing her poetry. How pathetic he was, calling her his warmth on a cold day, how he only caught her eyes once but her smile was like that of a thunderstrike that set his heart a thunder, of course it wasn't good.

He wasn't a poet, he was the son of a gravedigger who'd rather spend time talking to flowers then speak to people. Of course his poetry was sloppy at best, he couldn't even make a simple prose if he tried; Try he did however and eventually he saw her again.