I run my fingers on its heavy grain,
to drown in white immaculate,
crisp and untamed.
Follow the trails of graphite
deeper and deeper into a dream,
losing myself in ecstatic swirls
of Prussian and ultramarine blue.
The ochre sun reflects
eyes half-buried in yearning.
Are these splotches of color part of a reality?
The sheet bleeds, wounded and hurt
by the eraser's constant rubbing.
Ink blots, water spills and creases. . .
For now, these pages shall remain white.