Blank Page

We used to say,
“Here’s my blank page,
my paragraph shall start with yours.”

A blank page implied the need to be filled with something;
magic words,
rituals,
dreams,
hopes,
a simple “hello” to a familiar face,
or prayers whispered to resurrect the dead.

Sometimes the page was always filled in,
with cuddles,
kisses
planted on the creases of your smiles,
affirmations shared over breakfast,
hands entwined,
and feet tracing the lines of your laughter.

Yet sometimes,
A blank page implied that there was once a story here,
A story faded,
erased by the relentless winds of time,
and scattered like dust
by the breath of a new lover.

Now, the blank page feels daunting,
To find my way on a once-familiar page,
The reminders of your contours in every margin
Mock me with their silence,
like life itself,
uncertain,
unpredictable,
and painfully empty

As the unwritten letters,
and unsung apologies,
unanswered calls,
through cold coughs,
cold sheets,
an empty bed,
an empty house
and a bludgeoned heart

What is it that we used to say,
“Here’s my blank page, my paragraph shall start with yours.”

But not on that day,
when blank was the face of the mortician,
as I asked him to point to me
where my lover’s body lay.

Written by Phill Ibsen.