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