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.