Blank space on a blank page.
Filled with the emptiness of that which you never left.
You were never even there to leave me bereft.
An imaginary space on a blank page
Open to be filled….
Like the wisps of air, between my strands of hair.
Hair you’ve never touched.
Is that to be it, my love?
Is that all there is of us?
It seems there never was much more.
Just an imaginary space on a blank page.
My head, you said, is filled with the joy
Of the nothingness that was never even there.
A beautiful space on a blank page.
A love page on a blank space.
My hair, if you dare, is here.
Don’t you see?
You’ll never know what you don’t touch.
It’s easier this way, yes, perhaps…
Easier to ignore, than to stare.
So much easier for the both, I suppose.
Lovely and safe…. and secretly…
An imaginary space on a white page.
Write on my page, my love, I ask!
Feel your warmth, feel my wrath.
Empty pages are meant to be filled.
Fear is just the end of a long, exhausted sigh.
For the relief is in sight, if you just travel nigh.
My blank page waits for you, my love.
Open to the same page.
The page that’s been kept just the same way.
Waiting for you, waiting for the day,
When you would choose to fill the blank space
With the words that would swallow us whole.
Into the depth of blankness that exists,
Falling as one into our soul.