Filling the White
Four times this afternoon I have written pieces, four times I have deleted them.
The white embracing me, enticing me, begging me to tell a story of charm and wit.
The tired pouring over me in slow, teasing me from focus, taunting me to follow.
Cursors blink, attempt of hypnotize so I might fall victim to sleep unaware.
The whiteout staring me down in challenge, mocking and daring me to mark its surface.
Unaware of my appreciation of white space in pursuit of the proper words.
So we sit in silence, considering tactic and tale, foreplay and intensity.
Each committed in objective and observation.
The white makes mention of our woeful situation, a story of common to quill and writer.
My page has asked consideration, and I have accepted, for always it has provided canvas.
Of story painted and poems strung, when hearts be empty, and hope none.
Why not this day we be team once more.
To fill the white, a promised tale in store.
