The first time you wrote on me, it was scribbles to get the ink flowing
I memorized the feeling of you on my surface,
words and sketches marking every part of me.
You were giving me every piece of your soul in exchange
for my empty lines and white pages.
All of my life, I have preferred fine-point pens.
But you made me fall in love with medium.
Delicate lines making words form.
Your love letters that you wrote for other people
were etched into my skin
permanently.
One time, a pen tore my pages.
And I had to lose those parts of me.
You are delicate.
Never pressing too hard and always,
or at least trying
to keep my pages neat and organized.
I could never blame you for writing on another paper.
One that didn't come from me.
But I was the notebook you wrote in when you died.
Your last words are idden in my back cover,
in a place nobody will see but me.
Because even thoguht I couldn't tell you I loved you, it was implied.
It was still beautiful.
I had to watch as you were cast to the trash.
And a new pen placed on a page.
It will never be you.
You were the only pen I ever loved
until my pages were filled or gone.
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