It is a monologue from the perspective of a pen!
You came and held me first, tightly in a fist
to guide me over and over, at times leaving
lines and long, long lines.
I was convinced that this was it:
eternal love, where hand to grip exposed
the tip of a wellspring. Both yours and mine.
There were cold nights – of course –
when we were all but divorced, where I sat
on the high shelf; kept myself to myself.
But the times you picked me up and ran
your fingers over me, furiously, tending to
get the big ideas out first: they were the
Most fun, albeit perverse. Now you seem
more interested in the blue-screen and
black keyboard, the click click clicks
that sound late at night. And in that poor light,
I click to myself – emptied. Used.
Spent of worth.