Ink.

​The blank white page

Brushed against my fingers 

That held the brush, 

Dipped in a colourful ink, and 

All my inspirations came down 

Running, 

Splashing, 

In front of me, in the form of 

The arch of your back, 

The curves of your valley 

Kissed by the setting sun, 

Dimming the contours of your shape, 

Teaching me a whole new language. 

My mind drew the image of 

Your black locks, 

Resting on your face, 

Lighting up from the rays

Pouring through the curtains, and 

You were marvellous, 

We were beautiful. 

The twenty year old ebony table 

Carved with your memories, 

Firm, 

Battered, came into view, 

The wood peeling off, 

Yet so prosperous, 

Crucified, 

On the brink of solitude. 

My soul sang songs in this new, unexplored, 

Yet familiar language, and 

My mouth sighed its consonants, and 

My mind narrated the beautiful tale, 

But my hand still didn’t move an inch.