A poet writes by lamplight in black ink on a pale page. He has learned that love is best said in very few words, so he draws only two faces, close enough for their breath to mingle, and lets a few lines trail away down the page like a sentence he cannot bring himself to finish.
The rest of the page he leaves open, and that silence is where the reader falls in. At the margins the ink thins and scatters into small dark squares: the crossed-out words of every draft that came before, kept because each of them was true once.
