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Ink on Paper

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Clutching the book to her breast, she cried. The gathered tears overspilling, dangled for a moment in fat droplets at the tips of lashes before dipping to trace a slow glistening trail across her cheek. Heartbreaking sobs broke from the depths of her soul and the tears flowed faster. She dashed them away, her anguish inconsolable.
Words from the book danced through her mind, each sentence remembered, caused a fresh deluge of tears and renewed sobbing. Her chest ached with the effort of breathing, of dragging in the unwanted air to her lungs. There was no room for breath. Her chest was filled to bursting with the pain in her heart.
She opened the book and stared at a page. A year of words left to her. Beautiful words, meaninful words, words filled with love, with hope. How could he have written so much and yet meant so little? The words mocked her. How naive she had been! How eager to believe. Now she saw them for what they were – false, worthless, empty words. Nothing more than ink on paper. She closed the book and a coldness seeped into her soul.

This follows on from an earlier post for Last Line First – Void, the last line of which was chosen to be the first line for the following week. It made sense to me to link the two…

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About Dabblewords

Reluctant writer, word dabbler...tea maker, coffee drinker, rum imbiber, chocolate eater.

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