The curves of her C’s
And the loops of her L’s.
The swirls of her S’s
And the fleeting train of her O’s.
All dance in his hands,
Just as they were told
By the flight of her wrist
And the smear on her skin.
His skin where hers had been
And the dampness in the page,
All spoke of forever forbidden tales
And fables of his fiction.
Through hail and through storms
It sails in its glass palace,
Carrying her scent and her heart
Meant to be held only by his hands.
He dampens the page with a piece of himself,
His touch never leaving the sacred black ink,
Putting his soul around walls that don’t exist,
Before letting it float on a journey to bliss.
Syeda Erum Noor is dangerously oblivious and has no sense of time. Send help at email@example.com