her writing desk

wrote this awhile ago

in the margins of a book she loves the most is where her secrets are kept,

her scrawny handwriting whispering the thoughts of the day,

a few pages over could be a note she thinks would be better hid than sent,

with love he never knew she had for him inked, things he can only find at her writing desk.



she has been yearning an incomplete dream for far too long,

wasting her time like he could give her more the day she found him,

though she's not completely sure he's real, at night she still feeds her demise,

and he, in her silver locket, listens with weary eyes to her wails at her writing desk.



could it be him she is writing for, she doesn't know herself,

the blurry faced stranger in the corner of her heartache dreams,

but she knows he loves her more than she could ever love him,

such a pity that he won't be there for her when daylight creeps unto her writing desk.



but morning breaks for the last time and light pools upon the girl with her soul gone south,

night falls and her skin is icy cold and gray, her bones stiff and numb,

ink from the pen in her hand spilling onto her final bitter words to the lover of her dreams,

who blossoms flowers in her heart when he kisses her tired mouth, in her life at the writing desk.



when the moon is at its brightest that night is when she will finally leave her spot,

and will dance with his ghost, loving words as sweet as she remembered,

their souls finally touching after years of waiting, after lifetimes of dreaming,

so patiently every night till the morning, in the dreams from her writing desk.