cannot say she is well-versed in what makes a poem good or anything like that. but she does know that it's an enrapturing story, his soft, quiet voice not unlike the waves that wash against the shore so far off. that take the wife away, and so much later bring her back.
there's
something nagging her about it, that she can't put her finger on. something that's important. something that requires critical thinking, which famously she lacks. it's the kind of poem, she knows, that a teacher might use as homework to pick apart and present the themes with. she isn't smart in this way. she doesn't want to disappoint him with a lackluster reply.
but she's scared, too. of the way he looks at her. of the way he'd spoken, his written word... so eloquent, like a prince. for her. the railing is cold against her fingers and she thinks they might be stuck there for all she wants to move.
there's a quiet kind of devastation, of confusion, in her expression, face pinching and finally, finally, her foot takes half a step back. traitor of her nerves, alongside her soft, cracking voice. ]
... You... really wrote that? For...
[ ... her? anna clears her throat, or tries, but it's tight. ]
It was-- very nice. Pretty. I'm... I'm glad it ended happily. You're like... a totally different person when you write.
no subject
...
anna
cannot say she is well-versed in what makes a poem good or anything like that. but she does know that it's an enrapturing story, his soft, quiet voice not unlike the waves that wash against the shore so far off. that take the wife away, and so much later bring her back.
there's
something nagging her about it, that she can't put her finger on. something that's important. something that requires critical thinking, which famously she lacks. it's the kind of poem, she knows, that a teacher might use as homework to pick apart and present the themes with. she isn't smart in this way. she doesn't want to disappoint him with a lackluster reply.
but she's scared, too. of the way he looks at her. of the way he'd spoken, his written word... so eloquent, like a prince. for her. the railing is cold against her fingers and she thinks they might be stuck there for all she wants to move.
there's a quiet kind of devastation, of confusion, in her expression, face pinching and finally, finally, her foot takes half a step back. traitor of her nerves, alongside her soft, cracking voice. ]
... You... really wrote that? For...
[ ... her? anna clears her throat, or tries, but it's tight. ]
It was-- very nice. Pretty. I'm... I'm glad it ended happily. You're like... a totally different person when you write.