3-6-13
This is more like prose...
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Ro­lling the ballpoint pen between my fingers
Careful not to drop it
But there it goes again
As I'm far away in my own thoughts

My only escape
But I never picked it up again
Because he told me to throw it away
I would have picked it up again
My treasure, my everything

I became consumed and I hadn't noticed it was laying on the floor
For years
My thoughts were no longer my own
And the house was put up for sale

He died and I wept for months
I had nothing from him
I dreamed of the past..

I bought the house
Full of memories
Of when I spent every waking moment
Smelling the beautiful hardwood floors
And the fresh honeysuckles I'd taste in the spring
And my dad's musky scent.
It was all there.

I saw an ordinary pen on the floor
Then, I saw its faint designs.
And suddenly regretted forgetting to pick it up

It was the part of me that made me one of a kind
Like the design on it that made it different than any other pens
I laid eyes on.

I instantly felt lonely again
And wondered why he left so early.