sometimes i wait and listen
of things i maybe should say
a song of love
a letter of thanks
or simply
what i dream.
nothing comes.
i sit and wait
i stretch and think
twiddling my pen
but not drawing any ink.
nothing comes.
time drifts by
slowly staring at my ceiling
the moon shines through
but not altering any feeling.
nothing comes.
so i think of you
which helps me to
draw the letters
on white pages.
something comes.
soon enough
my page is full
and softly
quietly
i drift off
to sleep.
here it is.