Blue Pen, Faded

The box groaned, a dusty sigh,

as we dug through paper graves.

Then your fingers, light and dry,

pulled out junior high's old waves.

My face, so round and young,

stared up from the glossy page.

And under it, the words were strung,

a blue pen, filled with childhood rage.

"Still a crybaby, huh? Never change."

The ink had blurred, a purple haze.

But the letters held their bitter range,

a cut from long forgotten days.

I traced the loop of 'change,'

felt the old sting,

just a little strange.