The sensuality of a blank canvas.

There’s no space on the page where my words can settle without burning

the sheet to ash. Speckles of ash that are lifted into the breeze, thoughts

carried away into the universe.

There’s no way to spill the calm of chaos into a logical sentence that can

be read and understood, rarely can the light walkers understand the dark.

There’s no way to create form with a desire that walks on the edge of

nothingness, no perfect Haiku to whisper in code, or sonnet to bumpily

rhyme away sinful thoughts.

Perhaps if I had an invisible pen i could write of the desires, I could tell of

the thoughts that would make even the devil blush.

I could explore the page with a fresh energy, words trailing, thoughts

wandering as do fingers or eye’s or the passion that sits on the

lips of a lover.

Or perhaps, I can write in rhyme safe in the knowledge that the beat will

hide from sight my continual need for you.

Trivialization of such thoughts feels like a form of infedelity to myself, to

the empty space in front of me, to the blank page that can become so

much, yet begs me to not make a liar of it.

Perhaps the emptiness is better than being compliant and trying to force

delicious chaos into some form of normality.