I stare at this
blank page,
white as the
blanketed ground
in winter’s staging

Where are the syllables
I crave to create a
mixture of magic?

I fear they have traveled
to faraway places,
across desert dunes
and boundless oceans,

and might not return
so that I may tell him
(again)
how he’s irreplaceable

Instead
I’ll just kiss him
and steady myself
in the arms of a man
who is satisfied
with my simple
existence

Lauren Scott © 2015