Plane, Line, Point

Sometimes
I run my hand
flat
open
across the blank page
before I write on it.

The emptiness is a smooth,
cool
infinite Plane.

All surface,
No edge.

My words form a rough,
hot
finite Line.

All edge.
No surface.

These are my two worlds
These are our two universes
existing
side-by-side,
so close
sometimes we think we see
words on paper.

But words are an illusion.
Often enough to obscure
Seldom sufficient for change.

Plane
and
Line
never intersect.