Talking Hearts

Written

The moon shone brightly along with the billion of stars in the universe, as a vintage notebook lies silently on the wooden table, waiting for words to be written in its many pages. While there is a silver pen sitting by the pen holder,collecting its thoughts, and waiting for its illusions to be written.

Both of them, under the silver moonlight and glowing dots scattered in the dark sky, waits for things to happen. For their fate to begin. For their story to be written. And for their destined collision.

both are dreamers. Both are wishful thinkers. Both recited their sincerest prayers. Both of them patiently waited for answers.

During the seemingly endless night of waiting, the rain poured and whispered. "Love requires patience. But there are so many things that can happen while waiting. At first, it might be easy. But as the clock continues ticking, waiting becomes harder, and there will be times that it might feel impossible. You'll lose hope. You will sometimes forget the reasons why you hold on. You will spend a lot of nights alone in bed crying. And you will eventually get tired of waiting."

The two listened attentively, drowning themselves into the thought of waiting.

"You get tired...and that's it?" The notebok asked, obviously against the idea of getting tired of waiting. The journal itself has been waiting for a long time after all.

"You get tired of waiting. But I don't suggest you to give up. Just keep on going and you might even get more than what your heart desires. Who knows?" The rain answered before it stopped pouring.

While drowning their selves into the depths of their own thoughts, the poetess entered the room. She took the pen and notebook, and gracefully sat on an enormous chair where you can have a perfect view of the imperfect phase of the moon that illuminates the nightsky.

She put her fingers on the notebook's leather cover, tracing the letters engraved on it that formed the word 'written', feeling their connection, trying to bring back the heart of a poetess she once lost, and going back again to a city of poetry that she once gave up.

She opens the notebook, and stares at its blank page for quite a while, and then she began writing. Words after words until it formed a verse. Verse after verse until it formed a poem. And then she turned it to the next page and began writing more about euphoric heartaches, temporary sweet tales, and painful heartbreaks. Of lost stars, and hidden scars. Of ecstatic sinful days that has been replaced by melancholic nights.Of the slight differences that lie between the spaces of 'I love you', 'I'm sorry', and 'Goodbye'. And of the beauty of sunrise at 6 A.M. and the tragedy of sundown that awaits at 5:30 P.M.

Page after page, she continues to write love and pain. Poem after another desolate poem, she continues to write about youthful mistakes and the broken promises that she made.

The poetess continues to glide the pen as if she and the pen just created a river with endless words that flow in it. Or maybe it is her heart and mind that is filled with pain and she has found a perfect language to speak it. Either way, the notebook and pen didn't care. Their prayers has been answered, and it is the only thing that matters.

"My pages are being filled with poems "

"And they are written with my ink."

It was probably one of the longest yet fleeting nights they experienced. For they finally found the warmth, spark, and connection they've been waiting for. The pen glides on the thin sheets of notebook, and the notebook's pages are being tattooed with the silver pen's ink. At that very moment, the clock felt like it slowed down when in fact it is not, for both of them knew that that single episode that happened is what they prayed for. A blissful night they have been waiting for.