A poem by Isabelle Sorrells

She scans the shelves

And reads her select few

In the chair in the corner;

Legs draped over the edge and long hair touching the floor,

All sound lost to her ears,

Her chosen selection of words

Hastily written in smudged ink on her arms.


He sits in a wooden chair

Creaky and uncomfortable by the window,

Pedestrians passing by

The smell of coffee and bread in the air

But he notices none of it.

He finds a comfortable position,

Though uncomfortable from the other perspective,

And delves deep into the knowledge and lives of another,

All at his fingertips.


They are lovers

Of the same kind.

Strangers on the street

Who see through the paper

And hear through the ink,

Forever in love

With the written word.

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