I'd like to remind everyone not to panic here.   This isn't about my life.   Hope its not too long, and I hope to have another part up soon.


Coming home from a late night she found him
sitting, head bent over a stack of notebooks.
...........hers............
Angered eyes
and temper streaked emotion blanketed his usual peaceful look.
Anger
nothing but anger stained her reaction to him sitting there so innocently,
devling into what was years of her heart and soul
and she felt
invaded and betrayed.
Always her privacy respected
and now this..
just him sitting there.
In the moment of reaction, she crossed the small space
from the door to the table,
hands swiping the books from beneath his intent gaze
to the floor.
"I just wanted to know who you were, and now I know", he said.
The past few years of rage she held in came out
and her words flew into his heart like blind searching birds
maddened by the hunt to be understood and sought out.
"You want to know me, but your chance now is fleeting
because you have wasted too many moments.

Didn't you ever hear how loud my voice was once?
How loud
and yet how softly I spoke?
It was there in the words I breathed
in conversations that, to you, appeared idle
and useless in their intent to engage you in my world.
I asked first
pleaded later
then damanded
and you brought me back a blank stare.
Your jokes were a mocking dismissal of the deeper me you could have embraced.
I tried to let you know me then.
Ohhh..how I did try
and how your failure to listen saddened my spirit.
Now?
It just angers me
and saddens me a a bit."
The look he gave her brimmed with the torture of truth mixed with full awareness of it.
He asked what all of it meant..
the words she wrote.
Then, waving one poem in her face, asked her particularly
"What does THIS one mean?
What lucky man did you write this great proclomation of love for?
Is this who you want?
Is this, Dear, the man you would rather have?
She cringed first at his tone
which, by the words he used in his question,
was clearly mocking the tone of her poetry.
Angry
for if he was mocking, he did not understand.
She took the poetry from his hand
control of temper whispering from behind a blanket of her growing rage.
Her eyes and heart scanned a sheet undated and untitled
one of her deepest that had tested the boundaries
of her emotions and love at one time.
It was a whisper of hope born of the love someone else gave without condition
and without mocking intent.

Sometimes the heart needs the solace of solitude and silence.

To the world, you may only be one person. But to one person, you may be the world.

I keep my ideals,
because in spite of everything,
I still believe that
people are really good at heart.
Anne Frank
09*12*01