Plume.

A white blank page, eyes keep widening at the dullness it shouts from the edges.  I do not think neither do I create.  The drips of the ink start a continuous melody.  I can't but repeat with raspings of contact between nail and wood.  Long and endearing, I seem to form ideas; they transport into holograms lurking throughout reality.  Yet, the paper still dull, preloved by wrecked nights.  No form of contact has ever been made.  Yearning for strokes he lays gracing the shape of the moon.  Hours gently weep the dissatisfaction I have created, leaving the hopes to scrabble the fates.  A lift of the plume and a smudge appears on white.  With precise motion it falls to the end surrounding all edges.  No drip but a continuous emotion.        

- Francheska Natalia.