lingering
once you wrote, with ink still fresh
That you wondered if my pen could still speak your name.
Would the day arrive like the aftertaste of wine,
Or be a hangover from a night out in college?
The ink this pen has soaked in still reeks of words left unsaid.
Yet it sits upon its table. Collecting dust and anxiety.
These digital barriers bar it back from ever telling its story.
Silencing the one story it has yet to write.
A comeback. A happy ending.
So if you could find it in you, to give yourself the strength,
This pen is ready once again, to leave the taste of wine on your breath.
