when two writers fall in love

each and every detail of their emotions

is recorded and bound tightly in journals hidden beneath their beds

and behind their shelves.

it blossoms like youthful trees in may as the words

they spoke and are still too scared to speak

glide from pen to paper,

ink blotting and smearing like the mascara on her eyes

and the leftover kisses on his face.

each new step is over-dramatized in their minds

and they are either extremely joyous

or unreasonably sad,

but never for long,

because the presence of someone else

who sees a picture and writes a story

is more comforting than a warm bed

in the midst of a raging storm.