little steps through time

..And sometimes she feels so lonely.
They say her pages are blank, but she thought, ‘I’ll keep them for him’
Pens, all types and colors: dark and brooding, colorful and flashy,…
They all come and go
Sometimes she stares, couldn’t find the courage to say, ‘I love how your ink marks those blank spaces. Will you fill mine too?’
..She just couldn’t, can’t
And she knows that those empty pages of her will soon turning into old, yellowing pages and odd dusty smell.
But she can do nothing, can she?
After all a mere notebook can’t fill their own pages. She wasn’t born a novel: interesting and loved and praised
She needs him to fill them

..And sometimes she smiles, imagining how will he be.
What color? Will he fills up the void in her with thin, careful strokes? Or maybe with intensity, few smudges after the dot.
It doesn’t matter, she knows she’d be so happy.

..And she sits there and waiting with blank pages waiting to be filled.
Not necessarily with poetry, even doodles will be loved.
She just need to feel whole.