Broken Tip

Too much pressure,

just this morning.

The soft wood shaved away,

then the sharp crack.

A small, dark point,

perfectly conical,

fell to the desktop.

A black seed, for nothing.

I wiped it off.

A silvery smudge on my finger,

a memory of what could have been

a line, a thought,

a tentative map.

What's left is just

the bluntness,

the wood without its dark heart.

A silence on the page.