By Megs
Date: 8 September 2000
Words
He writes so much now. Fills notebook pages. Drunk. Sober. Words. Always
about her. Leaves them on her pillow during the day. In the place where his
head should be, he instead makes an offering of his heart. In words. Hopes
one will strike a chord.
The irony is,she was the writer. She had written him so many times. Love. Always in her words. Trying to show him love in metaphors and word pictures. Trying to make love on paper. Oragami emotions. He would comment enough to appease her but he never understood. Never really listened to the words lying there.
Now he would give anything to read her words. His fall short. Always. Can not
do justice to the pain. The emptiness. No words to describe the change of a
life rich with and a life poor without. He thinks he might have had it last
night though. He was really proud so he came to her door at 2 a.m. and asked
her to read his words.
She was in her bed. Beautiful. Pure. Bare. And someone else was beside her. He
shut the door. Maybe louder than he should have. And left with his words.
Reread them alone and realized he had been telling himself lies.
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