Analogies

Before me sits a blank page, an invitation to write, black ink to form letters to express invisible, silent thoughts.
Slowly, this blank page is filling up, a cup half full against gravity. Or rather I should say that the words and the space they begin to occupy is more like a waterfall, letters tumbling down a white page like water down a rock face.
Like a curtain drawn down, the ending punctuation to a performance, but in this case, the curtain is drawn down as the performance; when it has hit the bottom of the page, the show will be over. The curtain covers an empty stage, the curtain is actors, set, lighting, narrator all wrapped up into one rather than merely being an end.
This paper is now more than half full, more than three-quarters full, and filling up fast. The waterfall will soon hit the basin, the cup will be nigh unto overflowing, and the curtain will soon touch the bottom.
No longer blank, this paper is now a story.

Written-in-the-Margin

I always
forget that
you wear
glasses,
but your
hair is
beautiful.
How do
I tell
someone
like you
something
like that?

Strangely
enough,
in that
one dream
you drove
a truck
what could
that mean?

Thoughts
flicker and
die as I
try to
remember
your face
and that
feeling.

I try
not to expect
anything,
but still,
sir, you
said you
would
call me.
And you
still haven't.