The One who Writes

Nestled in a crisscross of restless scribbles, someone comes out of the shadow and takes a shape. She isn't me, no. She is power, she is powerful. While I am enmeshed in longing, she flies in love. She is Meira, Nandini, Nirja. She is Nistha. She goes back only to return with a new name. She is infinitely kind, for, each time she leaves, she empowers me with attention, like the deep smell of spilled ink. 

She is flamboyant and fearless. She wears belief not different from a button. She comes like the regular visit from an unknown, who fascinates, invigorates. She leaves me wondering. Who is this then, who writes? Who is this who forgets what is written? 

I become her story. She subsumes. She is my story, too.

She, too, is my story.