A blank page
and I begin writing, with a quill.
My fingers and nails stained in cobalt blue.
A blue that has bled deep into my fingertips.
My fingers move, forming shapes and curves, dots and dashes...
forming words, spoken by the heart.
Once in a while the quill stops.
To dip in and write again.
And then, there is a blotch of blue.
A blotch that spreads into several pores of the paper,
washing over a word or two on separate lines.
The blotch makes a couple of lines seem meaningless.
Or perhaps, they didn't have much meaning earlier either.
But all I had done, was followed the dictates of my heart.
My fingers dance across the page,
A tango, full of drama,
And on and on I write.
In my mind I had written reams,
while, in reality, I had barely filled a solitary sheet.
I dip the quill again.
This time the pot of ink spills over.
On all the words I had written.
The paper is soaked.
Little by little, I see my words and the intervals of ivory turning into a brilliant cobalt blue.
I watch,
while the ink carries my words along, dripping on to the hard ground below.
A short journey that was,
from paper to the floor.
My words now rest in peace.
So many of them. Or maybe, not so many.
Completely contained in a few drops of cobalt blue, as they were before.
More so now.
And like a scar the stain will remain,
containing and reminding me of words that once were,
neatly arranged,
on a piece of paper.
