A little poem by me -
I said.
''I have a million thoughts in my head,
Perhaps, I can write ceaselessly for a century.''
It said,
"No problem, scribble as much as you want.
The ink can be amber, azure or fuschia.
It can also be jet-black, crimson-red or ash-grey.
Can be silver, golden or raindow."

Paper told me it's fortunate to have a user like me.
I told paper, the pleasure is all mine.
Paper told me not to burn it from the edges for ancient aesthetics because it hurts it.
I realised my fault and apologized.

Paper is a part my of ephemeral escape from predicaments :-
Late night silence echoing in the room.
Chandelier lightening up my couch.
Paper and pen being my companions.
In the voyage of writing my heart out.
Vapours of espresso evaporating,
I notice each one while introspecting.
Molecules mingling together,
Perhaps even better than people.

Paper is acted upon by the least gravity,
But it's heavier than pebbles when I write on it.

Paper is an empathetic blotting sheet.
Which absorbs my tear droplets and bears the stains of them, without grumbling.

Paper is a runway.
Where the airplane of my feelings and thoughts, lands.
Sometimes safely and sometimes crash.
Either why, it feels better.
I can't fathom, why?
But just better...