Our Story Untold

If only our pages had more than scribbles jotted down on thick lines…

Bullet point lists left with never-to-do’s.

A vial of ink,

Marking sparingly.

Fingers intertwining when they reached for the pen,

As if by accident was their calculated motion.

Soft glances met intense stares,

Looked away quick,

Blush on their lips.

About a hundred pages or more

Left untouched by imagination.

A soft, firm grip with the palette for fine-lined, black ink pens,

Met unpolished fingernails

With colored paint under the tips.

Ink met paper in the hush of late, dark hours,

Sometimes staining the bed.

Sketches of sultry moments,

Led to paint spilling over the seems.

A fine-lined ink pen ready to explode,

Painted hands already leaving traces on blank pages.

Our beginning pages hold only moments of almost.

A pen with shaky, fine lines

Had shied away from mismatched paint with no borders.

Unaware they could collaborate

To make a finished piece.

Now pages remain unfinished,

With a story yet to be written.