My ink-stained pages
need nothing more.
My thoughts and I
find our way
between the folds of the pages,
with no persuasion,
no coaxing.
Precious, those ink stains are.
I know
I can be myself
without worrying
that my thoughts would taint
the fresh pages.
Mere ink stains,
they are not.
They’re pieces of me,
holding me,
guiding me.
Mere ink stains,
they are not.
This piece is written in response to the three hundred and twenty fifth edition of Fiction Monday inspired by the word prompt – STAIN hosted by yours truly. Do join in if you have a tale to tell.
