pages

the pages stare at me, blankly.
they beg me for food
like the kids with huge sad eyes
on television.
they ask me to tell them a story
like Wendy's brothers
and Peter Pan.
they are longing to be filled,
to envelop the joy
and the melancholy.
they are longing to mirror me,
and my longing
for a literary diction
that rivals my crisp,
singing tongue.
to mirror my longing
for a feeling of flying
while being completely grounded.
for the smoothness not to be wasted,
to be so appreciated
that the technologically absorbed
becomes mine for the night.
the pages glare at me,
resenting my nonsense
that I have bloated their bellies with,
unintentionally; and inconsiderately.