It's Only a Pen
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The pen was not worth stealing. It just served as a reminder of things I didn’t want to be reminded of. It was such a nice pen. I stole it from such a nice person.
The pen held so many words – so many secrets I would never have the chance to keep. She never let me read her writing. (She never let me read her.)
It was unjust, if you ask me, to watch her turn a piece of paper into art I would never see for myself. It was unfair how her blonde hair would tickle my knees as she laid over them with the pen in hand. It was unethical how her ocean eyes would tease mine before she wrote down her next thought.
It was always right in front of me but still intangible. I never read any of it, but I know what she wrote. She wrote other worlds. She wrote secrets and letters. She wrote love. She wrote herself; she is another world, a secret, a letter. She is love. She is also the biggest question mark I’ll ever meet, yet she is so definite.
The pen never ran out of ink, and she never ran out of words. It was a part of her, and I stole it. I stole it because she was never actually mine, but I wanted her so badly. I needed a part of her that I could never have. I needed her intangibility. But now I’ve stolen her. I know she’s searching for the pen- Where is it? I swear I left it on the counter by the coffee mug. I wanted to take that stupid coffee mug, too. But I gave it to her, and I left it in hopes that she will look at it and see me. When I see this pen, I see her.
Maybe the pen had been worth stealing.
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