They both lie in separate beds,
he with a book and her with a pen,
he reads about a story,
whilst she creates one.
His is about a strong warrior,
and hers is a new story,
one that no one knows,
a mystery perhaps;
sadly no one will ever know.
It is her prize possession,
and his favourite novel.
They both get absorbed in writing,
but very differently,
yet so closely,
but never enough.
They will never meet,
never will they touch,
instead they will pass once or twice,
but never will they notice one another,
isn\'t that sad?