They meet in between the normalcy of their lives,
She wonders where he might be when she calls,
He dreams of her face when he strays too far,
And they always meet in the middle, among the strangers and friends,
Trapped in the minds of social construct and limited expression.
He loves the way a writer does, deeply and tragically,
Everlasting in the lyrics and words he uses to worship the feeling.
His heart bleeds into the ink he spills on the paper,
Yet for all his romanticism, he falls short on his delivery
And the words shrivel and dry, fading from the damage and abuse.
She grows too fond too quickly, her eyes blinded by pretty words,
And where she falls is too deep for her heart to land.
But still, she holds onto the idea of love as she descends,
Hoping to catch a glimpse of his soul—should she ever make it to the bottom.
She cannot convey her heart on paper as beautifully,
So she lets her fingers mold shapes on his body,
Hoping he will understand the way she expresses the feeling.
But she can never enter the Eden of his mind,
For at the center of the garden is a tree only he can climb, and, from its branches,
He’ll whisper to the snake the very things she could never understand.
But, together they try to rewrite what was once set in stone.
And at most, the love they share falls onto bleeding hearts,
Eager to keep the tragic romance alive, with screams that echo through the halls.
Through the chaos and the silence, the insane and detained,
He writes the tragedy of his broken heart,
And she moves with grace onto a new book, not looking through the worn pages.
Never knowing they already lost each other,
Their love caught between the chapters they never made it to