The Dancer and The Writer: 1

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One

It was on an unassuming Sunday

As steam escapes my coffee

Into the humid air

That I see him.

He has already seen me.

His eyes are already on me,

It is the pull of his stare

That draws me in.

And I can’t look away.

His hands are frozen in their actions,

And I see he is paused

In the middle of writing something down.

But his eyes,

I remember clearly,

Hold some shocking familiarity,

An echo of some past.

 

I found her when I wasn’t searching for her

In a coffee shop that I visit

After sleepless nights

Of endless thoughts.

She is beauty in person

Even dressed in tattered nightwear

Sitting on the floor of her balcony

Enjoying her Sunday morning.

I correct-

She is poetry in person

And I want to make sense of her

To write her down

To make her flow from my pen.

I write down my thoughts

My eyes shifting from her to the paper

Back to her

When I see

She has seen me

And I am lost.

This is part one of a ten part anthology that I’ve kept wrapped up for a long time. Please bear with me. Image not mine.

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