He loved her……he really did. But finding the words to tell her was going to
be the most difficult thing he would ever have to do.
Why couldn’t the words come easy?
He picked up the pen. It was blue, fine point. He liked those the best.
He straightened his pad – it was still on a tilt but it was straight. Angle
And then he started writing.
And he wrote and he wrote until his fingers hurt. Till a dark blue smudge
appeared on the fleshy part of his hand. The part that rubs against the paper
as you write. That part.
It was blue.
But he looked at his writing, his words. They didn’t say what he wanted them to
Another screwed up sheet of paper in the bin.
The recycle bin…
Her photo stared back at him. He kept it next to him for inspiration.
She was lovely. Her eyes told a story. That tell-tale twinkle. A Mona Lisa.
And picked up his pen again.
This time he was happy with the words. This time, they said what he wanted
them to say:
Slowly, it emerges from my soul…
For a moment
Your presence stands before me
And shows me
The reason love exists…