Writing

It gleams 
against a black leather
chequebook holder,
this long slim item that seems
to manifest your hand in its feathered
point of brass.  I am older,

wiser?  I hold the only fitting gift
you ever gave or ever
thought to give - that one time
you got it right.  Now I sift
flashes of your fingers, they hover
in my eye.  I prime

myself to try, to renew.  Selfless you were
that once, before
the indifference was born
and borne.  Having come far
and alone,
I swear your hand gone.

I look at the pen's pointed tip -
my life's form is not so neat or linear,
has no such design,
Oh if I could touch your lips
one time more -
I cannot feign

this lack I feel.  I bear
more than you will ever know
you gave.
This gold nib sears
my hand and in the flow
of ink I see blood.  To save

my life I write.
This mottled shell is beautiful 
but hollow inside.  You thought me trite,
preferred the world outside - its bright
lights, its overkill.
When your glitter left, I died.

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