Page
I am a page,
a blank page in a book,
waiting for life
to write its lesson on me,
I am anticipatory,
salivating like Pavlov's dog,
I watch and wait,
I am lined
but my lines are empty.
I have no margins,
I am ring-bound,
white, clean,
acid-free, recycled,
I yearn for the scratch of the nib,
the fertile ink of the writer,
I long to be impregnated by
the black gelatinous sperm of the pen,
to feel it’s nib moving across my skin.
I am a page,
an empty sheet of loveliness,
a virgin leaf,
a blank page in a book,
waiting for my tale to be written,
I am word-starved,
famished,
ravenous for the black crawl of words,
longing to be filled up.
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