The Pen

I'm in line at the pharmacy

when I see it on the shelf—

a cobalt pen, so pretty

it almost hurts itself.

I pick it up. The barrel's cold,

and inside the ink is dark,

darker than the things I've told,

darker than a spark

of anything resembling hope.

When I tilt it, the color moves—

it's the blue of wanting small things,

of useless, beautiful grooves,

of what the hollow heart still sings

when nothing else will work.

I could buy it. I have the cash.

I could take it home and write

something true, something brash,

and fill the page with blue light,

make the words mean something real.

I stand there like a fool,

the pen held up to the fluorescent glare.

I'm nobody's tool,

but I'm afraid to care

about one small beautiful thing.

I put it back. I don't.

I walk away with nothing.

The pen stays where it won't

call to me—but it's something,

this blue I can't let go.

I buy my pills instead.

I think about the blue all week.

Some part of me is dead

that can't reach for what I seek.

I don't go back.