It was his writing

The sound of that scratching noise you hear when pen meets paper
And magic is born

It was the main reason why i walked over there and sat in front of him.
200 tables and countless chairs in this library
I wanted look at him

I watched thin black ink slide against this white canvis
His cursive was smooth, his words with no shaky lines or edges
The soft tips of his fingers holding a faded black pen thats been through some ages
Bite marks from frustration
Dried up ink at the tip when his words weren't coming out fast enough

I couldn't help but watch
Even with me slightly staring he never noticed me

His head was down fixed on his paper
I could still see his eyes
A deep strong brown
The type of eyes that are so familure on an unfamilure face
Eyes that told a story, and you was willing to sit there and listen to every word
Feel and hear every breath

I wonder how he treated his woman
If it's like his writing i bet his amazing
Hands that looked so strong gently placing against the edge of something so gentle to hold it in place
The top of his teeth holding down at the soft bottom of his lip when he was thinking

His writing almost looked like a dance
A rhythm that he and his mind only knew
Rising up soft with every L, M, D, and A
Sliding along the lines like he's been writing before writing was writing

I don't remember ever seeing something so calming and enjoyable.
It was funny because
I actually felt envious of that paper
Maybe the pen

Looking down
I noticed my paper in front of me
Bare and hungry for something
But i didn't even want to write anymore
I'll dase at him instead
And dream of being his pen
His paper
The idea nests in his mind and has his undivided attention