What He Wrote

Her hands trembled.
Were these words really his?
Why would he scrawl them
In the margins of a book?
She flipped the pages
And read, by moonlight,
The pain and heartache
He had spilled on the pages,
Seeking comfort
In a stranger's sympathy.
Long into the night,
She read his story.
She ached for him.
She cried as she read
The smudged ink,
Telling tales of lost friends,
and a mother's passing.
In the daylight,
He looked so bold,
but was shattered inside.
So she held him, 
and cried the tears
that he couldn't.