as it came closer to 8 am
on my fine august 30th, 2013 morning,
i read your pages
front to back
without hesitation nor frustration,
but somehow, the black letters
against the white background
seemed to combine into one
until i was staring at nothing
but a blank paper.
and you said that i'd
never understand you
because i was never one
to read between the lines.
but i now realize that
i'm not reading between the lines,
i'm reading under them.
i'm reading the white background
that gets overpopulated by
a society of letters
mixed into words, yet
none of them explained
any of who you are.
because you are the blank page
that stares back at me
when my fingers cannot write.
you are the blue faded lines
growing weary as i scribble
and erase in dissatisfaction.
you are everything that i cannot see
and i finally understood.
it is 12:29 am,
and it will be the
august 31st, 2013
new york times article.
and maybe i will enjoy you
while having my cup of tea.