He sits sprawled,
in his usual overstuffed chair.
Pretending to read,
but watching her instead.
She types him in quiet stanzas,
eyes lowered.
She peers through her lashes
memorizing every detail
Every glance he steals
is a line borrowed
from the poem in her heart
and the margins of her longing.
He reads her
in sidelong silences,
lips twitching at the corners
decoding ellipses where words should live.
He thinks her poetry tastes like risk
and soft rebellion.
She writes him
with trembling fingers.
His voice speaks desires
unwritten, between the lines.
She is all metaphor
and he is hard muscle.
Two strides between them
filled with the heat
of a thousand stories
of hunger and release.
Possibilities hang thick in the air
the scent of fresh books and passion.
He reads her.
She writes him.
Together, they are a fantastic library—
Unwritten pages to be stitched
and bound in leather and longing.
No books here, just a solitary story.