theorapatricia

When the pen dies,
pages keep turning in its demise.
To read what will never be written,
by the pen with no ink, 
and a man who is missing.

Where has the man gone?
Where is his mind?
It is not being held withing the leather binds.

No more thoughts,
Ideas
Or questions.
Secrets are kepts hushed,
no more love letters,
no more confessions.

I long for that man,
who placed his heart in a book,
only for my eyes to see,
only for my lips to read.

Another page turned,
another felt beat,
resuscitated,
as the pen and pad meet.