She smiled and said, “They won’t make sense,”
Then let her fingers dance.
I watched her pen dissolve suspense,
Each line a sacred trance.
A lip, a curve, a teasing sigh,
Unspoken, yet it knew—
The breath between a how and why,
Drawn just for me, in blue.
She changed the shape—“Too much?” she asked—
Then added silent strokes.
Her secrets veiled, her glances masked,
Still sweeter than her jokes.
I begged to keep the page, the art—
She let it rest with me.
A keepsake stitched from heart to heart,
As raw as reverie.
She laughed. I joked. The room felt light,
But heavier inside.
She gifted me her quiet night,
And all she chose to hide.
No masterpiece could rival this—
This page she let me own.
No proof of touch, but still a kiss
That only I was shown.
I ache to see her hand again,
To hold her laugh once more.
But till that time, I hold this pen—
Her soul, behind a door.