Still.
I need space
around words
to help me think.
Penning the internal
is not
for crowded,
marginless
pages,
heavy with ink.
These thoughts come
only
as I watch.
Listen.
Breathe.
And wait.
Writing instrument
in hand.
Fine-lined letters
taking shape
swiftly.
Then pausing.
Silent.
Spare.
Slowly.
Spilling
mind to pen
on paper.
I rarely expect
what lands in
space.
Black
on white.
Permanent ink
remains.
Still.