Inspired by Erin Jaeger
You’re ready; I can feel it.
Rubbing words through linen paper
with a fountain pen
and colored ink,
freely constructing the world in verse,
I quicken
as disturbed air shifts
behind me
“Surprise” you breathe
a steady hand punctuating doggerel
on my scroll of spine. You belong in
the prison of literature.
Never one for the maudlin,
I sweep your cares aside
with a flick of a pen.
Deftly you stride
through my December desires,
through the boot-high
banks of almost-white snow and dripping icicles.
Face resolved, your eyes
cry sad water.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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