Novella
Eyes move across her page,
I have read her before,
memorized her mind.
The book on her lap
is a tragedy.
Her lips move, as I approach,
as if she is reading a sudden thought.
Are we still writing a thriller,
or is this mutual recognition,
a romantic interlude,
a magnetic, moment,
an impulsive flame of truth,
that flares between the covers
of a fictional novel.
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