hidden marlin
I stole one of your ball-point pens.
That pen stayed in the corner of my pencil case,
holding on to your numerous critiques.
From that day on,
I never even touched that pen,
until tonight.
I thought of that night: when
you were right by my side.
When I picked up that pen again,
I could hear you shout at the top of your lungs:
“You have an undashed t here,
an undotted i there,
misspellings everywhere,
and you want to write something
meaningful? Nonsense!”
and then you picked up the red pen and
corrected all my errors one by one until
even the sky was covered in red,
and only then would you let me sleep.
Today, my handwriting is still ugly,
but I’ve always practiced it.
I always wanted to show you. I always wanted
to shout out across the world:
“Can you proofread this? Please?
Just one more time?”
and for you to hear me just one more time.
I still remember that night,
but now you aren’t by my side.
acoustic mountain
distant rampart
sick vapor