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⌘                            well, sure,                            ⌘
she is a poet, alright,
but quite a peculiar one.
the quill on her escritoire
has worn brittle. and it's
inkwell is mostly dry, but
not from good use. i believe
it was knocked over by her
spooked, yet shamefully
neglectful cat one stormy
afternoon. it was monday,
i'm quite sure. to elaborate
a little further, the cat's name
is 'monday.' honestly, i am not
that good at remembering days;
though, i do believe—yes, it was, in fact,
a monday.
⌘                                                        ­                  ⌘
regardless
of monday's impromptu housecapades,
the inkwell sat dry and unused;
yet, she still authors such rich,
beautiful poetry. she'll never
use fancy words and rarely
ever speaks, but i do know
that i am her muse. she'll
never confess that much,
but i am positive they’re
for me. i feel her scrawl her
loyal verse upon my fragile,
calloused heart; they have
made change within me.
i'm her living poetry and
i love her—i need her—
she is Quill and i'm
⌘                          her Paper.                          ⌘