Only Connect

Only connect! Only connect the prose with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnected arches.  Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height”

 E. M. Forster



He talks politics in a room full of people.

She looks at him. But she’s not listening.

Distracted by the cleft on his chin.

The shadow of stubble and the curve of his mouth.

She plays with an ice cube, curling her tongue around it.

Taps at her keyboard absent-mindedly.

He gestures for emphasis.

A flick  of his wrist and she’s mesmerized by his hands.

Someone laughs and the conversation breaks.

He looks at her and smiles through the smoke.

She’s looks away. Guilty. Embarrassed by her thoughts.

For a split-second she thinks he knows.

Or maybe not. It doesn’t matter. She knows.

He fiddles with his phone and the debate resumes

This time she listens. Determined not to get carried away.

She gets involved and slings her arguments.

He pauses and sits back.

Throws her knowing looks, time and again.

In a room full of people only they connect.

Two minds perfectly synchronized.

An unspoken pact.

She can guess exactly what he’ll say next.

And he can complete her sentences.

The room gets smaller and opinions louder.

He drives his point and looks at her.

Their eyes meet in silent agreement, not a word is said.


He rests his case. Satisfied.

Late at night she thinks of him with a smile.

And wonders about this almost subliminal connection.





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