To him, words were foreign little countries lost in a vast ocean he had never yearned to visit. She read him her poem and he said, I like the bready clouds. I liked that. And she was sad at knowing that her words were lost on the man she would soon be calling her husband.
He was a brilliant painter. She got that. But anything beyond his canvas didn't seem to come to life. Many nights, after he lay sleeping soundly beside her, she thought of tip-toeing to his studio to paint words amongst his linear patterns.
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