At 2 A.M. Harvey stood in Ellen's office carefully sorting and stacking all the papers, paper clips, discarded wrappers, empty water bottles, pens and pencils. Ellen closes her apartment door at midnight every night and will not appear until 6:30 the next morning. No matter what.
Tonight, Harvey was going to make sure that the first thing she saw in the morning was his masterpiece. A Shakespearian sonnet, no less.
The desk was now empty of everything but his poem. He ran the tape around the edges, careful to keep the tape straight. The small lamp puddled light on his poem. He stood quietly looking at his work then absently looked around her office. Her smell lingered amid the sorted stacks and grime. For a moment he thought of the absurdity of it all, but he pulled his shoulders back slightly, took a deep breath and walked out. The small light emptied out into the hallway as if wanting to follow him.
My life, my love, days grow long in your eye
I see the heavens open life eternal.
Your beauty reigns like kings of old who sigh,
For they cannot compare, not a kernel
Even I struggle to find the word, sight and sound.
Love twists and turns the heart and mind so oft
Yet lets all search inside and out to be found
Harsh in grace, cold melts warm, hard in soft.
But I, gentle love, have but little wit
My pen often loses its way, stumbles
Cupid tries to guide my hand, anon, quits.
He sees I am dull; eyes me, scoffs, grumbles.
Watching me to him all must be foretold
Oh, live with me I shall ever you to hold.