🤍

She reads poetry as if kissing, and being kissed by, her lover, feeling the tender elocution of its caress.

Eyes hover over words of ink so true, her heart a gentle flutter as she is sent anew.

Surrendering to the scent of the pungently perfumed pages which her fingers skillfully part, she ascends the undulating currents into the poetic heights of her romantic skies.

But with a turn of that ivory page her eyes dim and salt takes up the space, for she has read the love stories but tragedy has arrived in its place. Bitter ends and saddened days all recounting with that gaze, a tenderness within her heart for all the pain and grieving art

The book now closed, lays silenced by her bed, those words of yesterday darkened upon pages now evermoistened by the tears spilled for an unrequited love. She extinguishes her bedside lamp. 

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