The page is blank,
like a relationship
when a first response occurs
on match.com.
Who is that person?
Are they the page or the ink?
The pen or the storyteller?
I know only the picture,
only the general size of their nose
and whether their ears stick out.
Is that a double chin?
And their bio.
A micromemoir of their
desires and lack of flaws.
A self authorized fiction
created by self anointed
artistic license.
How beautiful that would
be in real life,
controlling how others view you
like a master puppeteer.
"This is how I look
at this particular angle
and in this particular light."
God help us if we
met in a dark alley,
or maybe worse
in a well lit milieu
of ordinary folk.
So maybe the page isn't blank,
but filled with a carnivore
in waiting
only later to reveal
how well they concealed
themselves,
on limb or under bush.
Or maybe they
allowed the illusionist's
reveal -
waiting under their smile
to later pounce.
Or maybe . . .
their presence
was truly majestic enough
to show their flaws.
And still
draw those
to pursue.
The blank page
and the mystery therein
may be
the greatest
sentient draw.