There has never been a white page that hasn’t tried to lure the pen my arm holds. I often wonder if it is the poise, or the talent, or the heartwarming cold breeze which casts the spell. But every time my finger caresses, you flutter your pure white wings, asking and saying a million things, sometimes impressed by the gracefulness and elegance of words being written over, often filled with emotions I poured onto it.

But most of the time, you bear the expression of an unexplainable emptiness, or so I think, for after the ink has danced all over, you look at me with a sweet reprimand in your eyes, giving silent accusative looks. And I smile, for I know the reason. Every single time, you hope for me to give you the best, you yearn for a masterpiece.

But alas, my dear, you will have to leave disappointed. Because I’m neither a master nor do I believe that there can be nothing better than the best. So do know when you summon me by pouring in the moonlight through the window, that I might gift you the best I have, but then a monsoon shower might let me create something more beautiful, a while later.

<Originally published on Muffled>