The Blank Page

All I am missing is that one word which will connect to the next word and then another, sprinting like relay runners passing a crooked baton from palm to sweaty palm. Part of me wishes they'd pace themselves, the epiphany aglow like an oil-soaked wick, indomitable. But what I secretly long for is a dash over the finish line scrawled beyond the next hill, far away from here, from me.