They were already there, waiting for her.
Words, creeping up on papers and journals.
Impatient things, crowding in on each other.
Waiting to tell their stories.
Expecting her to organize them so that they could.
Her words were rule breakers, most of them.
Usually making a chaotic spectacle of themselves.
But tonight was different.
Under the light of a desk lamp, the words kept still.
Maybe sensing the mood of their writer, they waited to be called instead of their usual barging in.
They answered without much coaxing.
They sat upon the lines of the page and spoke back.
They spoke of love.
They spoke away cobwebs.
And head in hand, she organized them on the sheet of paper.
Looking down at what had become of them, she saw that they had banded together.
Virtually leaping off of the page.
Coming to her rescue.