His touch is graphite His breath, the flutter of paper His eyes are pools of ink And his soul is unwritten words Her mind is swirling concepts Her mouth is full of unspoken ideas Her hands are smudged and stained And her heart is written out in neat print The room is cluttered and clean The air is full of murmurs and half-finished lyrics The floor is covered in abandoned writings And in the middle of it all Hunched at a desk, Scribbling away Are them His touch is graphite, and her hands are smudged and stained with it His breath is the flutter of paper, and she prints all he wants to say They are poetry in motion