I have no pen in hand
-You know- the one with ink
That leaves a mark behind
Not that one

That pen
Whose existence is debated by its nonentity
So vague the pen stroke
So illegible the words
That it leaves you with nothing but questions

You question yourself
Was it memory or imagination?
Yet the tingle upon your skin still lingers
Seeming to promise letters written before

Those words were not planned nor considered were the messages
But in truth and with paranoia instilled
Although they flowed through mind so fluidly to settle upon skin
I'm sure their waters were disturbed along the way.

This pens ink is poisoned
Best throw it away