The Scratched-Out Line, Or, What the Pen Knows

I keep pulling it out,

this folded-up ghost.

A letter. To you.

Never finished, almost.

The paper is thin now,

creased like an old map.

And there, the blue line,

where I tried to clap

down the feeling, to hold it.

And then the black,

a frantic spider-web

across the words, taking them back.

But the pressure is still there,

under my ribs,

a trapped fly buzzing,

its frantic quibs.

I meant to say it, you know,

that I hated—

no, that's not right.

That I needed—

no, not quite.

It's just that the space

between us, it's not

empty. It's filled

with what I forgot

to say. Or couldn't.

And I wonder if you,

somewhere, also keep

a similar untrue

thing, folded, like this.

A secret, a sting.

The pen knows.

The pen.

It knows everything.