she sits there,

taunting me.

her crisp clean front

flawless blue lines.

flirting with me

to caress her,

one cursive stroke at a time.

she’s whiter than linen

only doesn’t smell as nice

easily crumpled litter

should i leave her scrapped, behind.

she craves to be touched

even a meager scribe

would make her just.

yet composed of printed fabric

my rough scrawl

would only smudge her beauty.

so here we are–prosed utility, fictitious foe.

 she, a blank page.

and i?

an uninspired writer.