With every sentence beautifully spoken,
The girl had allowed her heart to be led
By the trail of the boy's beautiful voice.
She craved his timbre, hollow and wholesome
Sweet and soft when it needed to be,
And did what she could to
Get him to speak.

At first it was subtle,
With a "Darling, how
Would you pronounce this word?
Yes, that one, that one indeed" and
A tilt of her head,
Every single word she wanted would be read.
But then it grew, and she no longer
Had the patience to be so inventive.
Her books flew from the shelves,
And shoved their way under his nose
By the guide of her hand.
"Read this passage,"
A blink.
"Please."
"Lucrative."
"Say it slower."
"Lu·cra·tive"

What the girl did not understand
Was that the most beautiful commands
Of language were not
The words written by others
And read by him,
But the words
Written by him and
Spoken by none, as they sat
In a shoe box
Under my bed.
The words I reread and read
Could not compare.