silent words

He watched the back of her head, her side profile, and occasionally even a glimpse of her face, quiet and framed by long mahogany tresses. Almost daily, she read, wrote, or just daydreamed over a steaming cup of tea on the worn beach nestled beneath the street front windows of his bookstore.
Each day he saw her he transposed exactly what he would say to her. Sometimes he rolled them over and over in his head. Sometimes the words came swiftly as he scratched them on loose parchment in rows of Indian ink. But she never heard these words. She never read them either.
For she never crossed his threshold, and he never ventured beyond the shop's battered door. And so day after day, with all the words in the world hanging between them, the only thing they shared, was silence.



Optimistic Existentialist said...

I love the picture you chose with this one

Charity said...

Thanks, though truthfully I must admit, it was the picture that inspired the poem!