The page crinkles under my palm, and
I touch the blank paper with tenderness.
Soft, comforting birch wafts up to me.
As I caress the white sheet, tingles of
smooth friction prick my fingertips.
I grasp the pen and let its ink flow
and fill the empty void -- I let thoughts
and syllables swell from the tip.
The white is crowded with a deep blue,
messy depths of murky words.
A small stream seeps from the crevice
and then a waterfall breaks through,
soaking the sodden page in emotions.
So weighted with heavy words, I can barely
lift the page to read by a window's glow.