I grip the stained pen....
trying to stay in between the lines.
my hands are shaking, palms sweaty.
pressing the metal ball down towards the crumpled paper, pressing and pressing but nothing comes out....
a tear falls from my cheek as the dry cartridge remind me of you.
stall notebooks lining my book shelf.
I need the ink to bleed from me as you did
but the words are gone since you left.