The Writer.

She holds me,
sometimes tight, sometimes light.
My blood,
drains away for what she writes.
My nib,
Kissing the soft paper beneath,
My hat,
Gets chewed on by her pearly teeth.

She’s happy,
Her fingers caress my long neck.
She’s angry,
The same fingers strangle me to death.
She sad,
Her tears wipe away what I inscribe.
She’s scared,
Her damp fingers roll me aside.

My ink and her thoughts,
Are merged into one.
She writes about fear,
And she writes about fun.

I know about her life,
The pain endured,
The happy times,
The scars cured.

But she is me,
And I am her.
Till the very last drop,
I’ll stay with her.

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