Back In Again

There is a pen on the edge of the coffee table in front of me and I get the itch to use it.

I haven't written by hand in so long.

A strange excitement jolts through my body.

I walk to my bedroom to grab a notebook.

It's got notes from my old job 6 years ago

and a poem in it.

The poem reads,

‘This isn't just a pen.

No, in this pen lives my imagination.

It was a gift from a myth who has blessed me with it.

A man, who I don't understand, told me to take a stand.

So,

with this pen, my imagination, and everything I have within,

I attempt

creation.

A story becomes

a legend.

And in the end we are all the same, just with different clothes

and different names,

living the same story,

Between different eras and borders.’

The next page reads,

‘Dear Kait,

Some people throw around the word Love to anyone who treats them right. Not I, though, I only say that-’

It's here the pen must've started to die, because the ink is barely visible. It fades until I can hardly read the last word; becoming more of an imprint on the page, then written in ink. It reads,

‘. . . word when I feel it in my soul.’

It's then I noticed something in the back of the notebook.

These are pictures of her and I. She printed them out and gave them to me back when we were together.

I look through them and it hurts. I cry for the 100th time.

Yesterday, I tried to let go of her, and once again it feels like the wrong thing to do. The universe screams at me to let her back in again.