Believe me,
the blank page in front of me
the one attached on the monitor has its own face.
It makes my finger tremble,
***** incoherent words.

It looked bright, but vacant
as if married to someone
but without love
like life without meaning
existence without purpose.

For countless times I heard it sighed
a heavy, heaving sigh
a sigh that exhaled past lovers
dissolving on the creased bed sheet
and reappearing underneath the unwashed blankets.

Their egos bruised.
Their names old.
Their home in the labyrinth of yesterday,
in a village somewhere in the world
that revolves between their uneven breath.

Their stories stacked,
in the deepest corner of a human heart.

No one could unearth them.