My Lady’s Pen

26 Mar

I am my Lady’s pen; her fountain.

She chose me to be her trust.

More than an acquaintance; more than just a pen-pal.

I cuddle cozily into her palm as her pent up emotions

get penned out every time she puts me to paper.

Like a brush I paint her the colours of her soul;

her vocabulary is a generous palate.

I am the word-smith to her pensivity.

She is the inspiration. I am the expression.

When we dig into the soil of her reflections

Then, even in January, we make sunflowers.

We plumb her depths together

and bring forth buckets of verse.

Would be suitors always chase,

to puke their rainbows all over her

(50 shaded or otherwise). I take, perhaps, too much

joy in writing a “Let’s just be friends” letter.

I grimace when I must write a romantic note to a man I

deem unworthy of her (Admittedly, that may be all of them).

I am her switchblade when loneliness kisses

the back of her neck. Then I, as her pen, am

mightier than the sword to chase him away.

I am sometimes jealous of iPhone who is richer than I.

He holds her hand too. A lot. But not long ago,

she put him down and took me into her bed.

There we knit nostalgia into her journal.

An evening of intimate ecstasy.

iPhone was chained to his charger, forced to watch.

My Lady shares with me stories of shattered souls

she embraces out on the streets.

I am christened with her tears which spring

from her bigger than Christmas heart.

Together we sculpt carols of compassion.

When the monsters hurt her,she bled

my black ink on parchment. Each letter

was a midnight scab over her scarlet wounds;

Poetry was the antibody to bitterness. I was her right hand.

Earl Grey mixed with mourning was her left.

At times she will put me aside and in the notebook

I’ll reside while she attends to work

and other relationships and though I miss her,

I don’t grow bitter for she is embracing

a life worth writing about. When the time is right,

she’ll return,to pick me up where we left off.

I will again be her pen; her confidante.

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