The Problem with Pens

"I think I love you…"

There is no going back.
It is on the paper,
Inked in tiny cursive letters.
I’ve let it escape my mind,
And now the thought runs free.

But the ink runs down the page,
Smearing letters, apostrophes.
Blurring my message.
I try to catch the drops,
But they only leave me stained.
I am left with bruised-looking hands,
Jumbled letters,
And an empty pen.

Next time, I will have to use
The blue ink running through my veins.





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