Pen

the forgotten fountain pen
drapes its lines sadly over the
ridges and yellowing edges
looking back at the words which left the corners of her mouth without being spoken.

citing examples
biting cheeks
words fell to the floor
sinking without slowing
falling without knowing
the inside of my head.

floating by your window i
looked through your yellow drapes
and onto a desk decked out in lamps and books
and a single notepad with shiny silver rings and neat blue lines
that you wrote on.

and in the corner of your bloodshot eyes
was the coffee we'd enjoyed on the cafe in the street
many times before.

how they found their way past your shaking fingers
is not for me to say,
but when the words sprang from the just straightened paper
they ran up my arms in fear and haste
brought on by recent losses
and broke through with electric arcs
lighting me up like a welder's torch.

so thank you
i guess
for wrapping your fingers around
the black
dripping
pen.

reminding me.
again.

and
again

of the blackened blood that we still share.