Dearest Writer,

Sometimes it feels like I’m just a decoration waiting
for you to return and dust me off.
It has been sometime since you placed me to paper;
my ink needs time to warm up. I can do this,
you can’t force me to work.

Don’t worry, sweet author,
I’ll get the hang of it, for no amount
of pressure will make it happen
on my first try. There, you see?

I told you, I can do this, my beloved
poet, your swift movements
drag me along, graceful and smooth
like a dance—

mistake. It’s okay. That happens sometimes.
We aren’t perfect, you’ve overcome these obstacles
before just breathe; take a break;
try again. Write when you feel,
write when you can, dear author, forget
the words when they can’t find you.

The paper has space on the corners calling
for my ink. Show your imagination
in your doodles, show your artistry in diagonal
lines and uneven shapes.

Find your inspiration
in the way I bleed onto a page. How I open myself
up to the blankness of the canvas, willing
to let all that I am exist outside
of myself for your sake.

The paper wants to get to know you like
I do. Don’t be afraid of who you are, dearest writer.
I will be here when you need
me, no matter the time of day
or the emotions you’re feeling.

Truly Yours,

Pen