Ode to Steve

(AN: Samantha, I'm sorry your pen died. This is the best I can offer
you.)

Ode to Steve

In my large hand, he fills the void between my fingers one last
time
My pen writes no more
No more jet-black ink will roll from the minuscule silver ball
No more words of rapture or anger will be put on paper with my favorite
pen

O! How I even remember where we met just three months past
At Office Max in aisle 4, it was love at first sight
(I swear, violas were playing in the Binder aisle)
And I wrote with my new pen-Steve, I named him-at every chance
My hand constantly held him dearly as if Steve was a loved one
Every day and even into the night Steve held a spot in my hand

And I did love Steve
So, why did he have to go to a better place?
Why did his ink cartridge-his thin pen soul-fade away?
I stand behind the Creative Writing trailer in our pen graveyard
Among other past pens and the 'unknown pen' tomb
And Steve falls from my hand into the shallow red brown dirt
grave
A broken pencil his tombstone, a dandelion his farewell
Steve will never fill the void between my fingers ever