Used

I am a piece

of faded lined paper

whose boarders grow only dimmer

whose edges drift slowly away

in waiting

until a strong, sharp pen makes its mark.

Unable to see the whispering lines, he asks where he might tread,

and I answer in riddles.

Frustrated, he asks, "here?"

"Sure," I reply, wanting only to be somehow useful, "why not?"

A soft sound like a ladybug's scream escapes as my lines fight for what is theirs

and are forgotten; I tell myself it is

beautiful. After all,

what do I know?

I am but a piece

of faded lined paper.