This pencil sounds
like sputtering,
a car engine failing.
It smells like
the sheets you just left.
It feels weighted,
heavy like a lead blade
that I can hardly hold up.
It tastes bittersweet,
like the tail-end of smoke:
as musky and infectious
as your kiss.
This pencil looks
at me sparkling with dew,
"did you lose interest in me
like the boys lose interest in you?"