The Poet and The Story

The poet meets the story. The poet was full of woe and despair while the story was full of curiosity and confusion. The poets eyes, dark and dull; meet the story's big and bright eyes. Understanding glances from both eyes as they study each other. The poet studied the story's eyes and realized they had so much in common. The poet and the story were options, but were never anybody's first. Soft smiles were exchanged. The soft smiles turn sad as they both realize they have too much in common. How could a beautiful story have such a disheartening ending?  The poet thought as he continued to gaze at the story, who was day dreaming. A soft smile grows on the story's face.
"I can feel your eyes on me." Her voice is soft and clear like someone's favorite record. The poets cheeks flush maroon as he looks away from her carmel brown hair. "Why you, a beautiful story have such a sad ending?" The poet finally asks after many moments of silence. The story sighs and a sad smile crosses her pink lips. Her gaze met the poets, her eyes sad as she says, "I was written by a girl who gave her all to a boy who took her heart and shattered it like glass. I was never destined to be a love story with a happily ever after." Her eyes filled with tears as she looks down the rows of books. The poet stared in shock. Even the most beautiful things in the world face the ugliest battles. "People write poems about their loved ones, and sad one for those who yearn for love." The poet says, moving closer to the story. She wore a baby pink dress covered in white flowers. The sleeves were flowy like the rest of her dress. She smelled like pink lemonade and coconuts. Which a bright colored story with dull, colorless endings. As the rain tapped the windows of the library, the story lights her small candles. Her dark eyes watch the dancing flames. "Poets and poems can have such disheartening meanings, but they're written with grace and elegance." She says softly, dazing into the tiny flame of her candle. For the first time, the poet felt a warm fuzzy feeling in his heart that barely beat. Finally, someone understood him. He watched as the story gently placed her delicate hand on her cheek, as her dark brown eyes met the poets. The poet gazed into the story's eyes, watching the tiny flame dance in her eyes. Her eyes glimmered when he met her gaze. The story's ears turned pink as she looked away. "Please don't look away from me." The poet softly says as he gently grabs her hand. The story glances at his warm, soft hand on top of her cold, frigid hand. "Why are your hands so cold?" The poet asks cautiously. "My hand has no place to call home." The story replies as she admires his eyes. "You remind me of a vintage record player." "I am a vintage record player. I was once someone's favorite song before I started collecting the dust of our memories." The poet shares, his voice dull and sad as he watched the candle fire. "Soon enough, someone will find you and you'll be someone's favorite song again." The story says, smiling gently. She stares at the poets hand that has been on top of hers. Her glossy lips form a small, sweet smile that made the poets heart flutter. "Do you think you'll ever find a writer that will write you the happily ever after you deserve?" He asks, watching her use her finger to trace invisible drawings on his hand. The story was silent for many moments. She sighed before she said, "'Maybe. Or I might come across a charming, misunderstood poet whose hand are as soft as silk and exquisite green eyes I could gaze into for a million lifetimes." The poets face flushed red as he listened to every word she spoke. The poets whole world went quiet as he held eye contact with the story. When he met the story's eyes, every surrounding sound went quiet and his favorite song started playing on his childhood record player. The story slowly stood from her chair and gave the poet a gentle kiss on the cheek before leaving. The poet noticed she left a pencil and paper on her side of the table and the poet smiled, grabbing the paper and pencil, writing away.