Pocket Weight

Saw them on the rack today,

bright plastic, cheap display.

A flush, a flash, a quick cold hand,

a memory I understand.

The blue one, smooth and light and thin,

tucked deep inside where no one could begin

to guess the small, quick slip of need,

the planting of a tiny seed.

Carried it for weeks, a secret friend,

a small, sharp point without an end.

Wrote with it, drew with it,

never paid the price, or grew with it.

Just a small theft, a quiet, perfect crime.

Still feels like mine, after all this time.