Insect

Insect. On my blue lined writing pad a tiny insect walks, it appears lost and hesitates before crossing a line, lost in this vast wilderness of the unwritten. I try to blow it off the paper, but somehow glues itself to the paper and will not budge. I cannot touch it tiny as it is I will surely squash it. Nothing I can do for now, leave it to its own devise, go watch TV. When I returned it has gone, a sheet of paper with nothing written on is a lonely place and has no story to tell.