The First Page

If I write about love,

your name might be on the first page.

But I am too afraid to start there.

The pen hovers, unsure in my hand,

so I leave it empty.

I turn to the next,

hope trembling with each line,

as if by some chance

your name might slip onto the page.

I almost write it… almost.

Every page that follows is the same.

I try. I yearn. I imagine.

It is in my head clearly,

as clear as you—like a paintbrush

meant for canvas, not for this paper.

People always leave the first page blank,

but they do not know what it is to linger,

to turn pages in search of something

that seems to belong just beyond reach,

the thing you are too afraid to begin.