The Touch of a Word

This is a love story I wrote, part of a book I self-published entitled In the Dreaming: The Flame of Beloved Love...In Words. You can view more of my stories on my blog, (blogger) Un Coeur D'Amour, if you like. I truly love writing stories like these, and love reading them, as well.

Today she sat in the Museum coffee shop, studying the human body. The Anatomy book lay out on the table in front of her, her wooden sketchbook to her left. Parker pencil at hand. He walked in and bought a cup of coffee, carrying it to a table just right of her. Took out a book. The Art and the Craft of Poetry. By Michael J. Begeja. She saw him sit, but didn’t think much of it. Just kept studying, trying to memorize the body’s bone structure. He said it quietly, as if it were nothing to talk to someone he didn’t know.

“What are you studying?”

She looked up. He was handsome.

“The body’s bone structure. I’m taking a Figure Drawing class.”

He smiled and put his book down.

“The body is a beautiful thing.”

“Yes, it is.” She smiled and put down her pencil. “And you are reading?”

“The Art and Craft of Poetry. Michael J. Bugeja.”

“You’re a poet.”

‘Yes. A poet.” He tapped the book. “I write poetry.”

She nodded. Then looked back at her book. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I really should get back to studying.”

He smiled and picked up his book once more, then put it down and looked at her. “Do you happen to have a piece of paper?”

She gave him one, and he pulled out a pencil and started to write. It took him a bit, but he slid the piece of paper over to her and quietly went back to reading his book. She looked at it, a little surprised, then picked it up.

THE BODY

This pencil is cradled in my hands,
and I look at the paper and think
Of the beauty that lies in the bones of a word.
And so, I hand this letter to you, the bones of a poem,
At the moment, only a hand.

She thought it was beautiful, and just looked at him. She’d never been given a piece of poetry before. He smiled, and without looking at her, spoke.

“You’re supposed to write the next stanza.”

“But I don’t write poetry.”

“I’d like it if you’d give it a try.”

She looked back down at the piece of paper. Then picked up her pencil.

The hand is a beautiful thing,
Bones that curl and arch,
Curving around poetry, a calcium pencil
That translates thoughts into action,
Poetry in motion.

She slid it back across to him, smiling. She hoped he’d like it. He read it, his smile growing wider, leaned his chin on his hand and looked at her.

“It’s beautiful.”

He smiled and looked back down, picked up his pencil to write. She went back to studying, and smiled when he slid the piece of paper back to her.

And so this motion brings my hand
To the paper, the curl and arch
Of my letters walking softly across
The white plain, holding each thought
close to their breast as only a lover might do.

It was lovely, she thought. Romantic. She looked up at him.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled and looked down, tracing his pencil on his book.

“Write the next stanza.”

She picked up her pencil to write.

Dynamic anatomy, to see them clasping love
to their sternums, the soft pressure
of a written word holding the heart
of their thoughts…beating, beating, beating…
a thought, a pulse, the breath of life.

When she slid it back his hand touched hers, lingering. They looked at each other. She went back to studying, he back to writing. And the next stanza met her hand. She held it softy, reading.

And so, the breath of life emerges
from our lips, a kiss, the word made real.
A kiss, a touch, a hand, a heart,
The body, softly touched
On a piece of paper called life.

It took her breath away. And he was looking at her, and she looked at him. She looked at the curve of his chin. She looked at the way he held his pen. She looked at the way he looked at her. He got up and moved to her table, sitting next to her. He gave her his pencil. She started to write.

And so I yield to the touch of a word,
Viewing the kiss in front of me
With a longing to touch this paper,
Only a shadow of the way I might
Touch and hold a body.

His shoulder was next to hers, his hand on the table. He took the pencil back, quietly finishing the poem.

Thus our hands meet, slowly,
across a sheet of paper…my pen
moving softly, musing, dreaming.
Looking at you…just looking at you,
And writing you into this poem.

She couldn’t help it. She looked at him and fell slowly into a kiss. Their lips met, a soft greeting, no longer a word. Just a quiet kiss, deepening, deepening into the poetry of love. And he broke the kiss softly, next to her mouth, a gentle request.

“I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”

And her answer, written on a piece of paper, at the end of a poem…yes.

Please note: All contents of this post are copyright Rebecca Tacosa Gray. The story displayed here is for your personal pleasure only. No unauthorized publication or use on another website or anywhere else is allowed. Copyright 2005, Rebecca Tacosa Gray.