I am

I am a paper. Waiting for words:

To turn my loneliness in chords,

To fill these empty lines with rhyme,

With memories that ring through time.

I am a painting. In ink with colour,

In a winter morning of ivory pallor;

My eyes giving no reason to restart,

Fretting fever of your burning heart.

I am just a stranger. To myself,

Into a corner, on the darkest shelf;

February winds mock as I write:

How much I miss you in the night.