The grass is wet to the touch.
Its stringy tentacles swaying in the breeze.

I stare up at the vast expanse of sky.
The Blue starting to fade into shades of yellow and orange,

Different

Than the one I was looking up to last night.

I hear the scratch of a pen beside me.

She

Sits quietly on the

Grass

  Writing

   Something....
Her pen is irritating.

I´m  ready to leave this hill,

To escape.
 
To explore the city sprawled at our feet?
  
To sleep?

I Sit Up.

Glancing at her little book.

Trying

To catch her attention.

I envy her silent concentration.
 
I yearn to do the same.

  Write about my feelings.
 
   A story.

    Anything.

But I have lacked,

Patience.

She looks down at my wanting eyes.

Then...
Turns the page.

I sigh......

She closes her eyes

And

Lets her pen fly across the

Beautifully parallel lines.

  Just a few seconds.

The book is shoved in my face.

Looking..

I see a Picasso like figure

Eyes

  Mouth

   Ears

All rearranged.

As if a small child had taken up a pen for the first time.

“It's you!” she says

Laughing.

I snatch the

Book

  And pen.

“My turn.”

I close my eyes as the sun

Sets,

Over the foreign city,

And draw.