Old Habit, Still There

I signed the lease with the landlord's pen —

cheap, the kind that skips if you press too light.

I found the line and pressed down, and then

I felt the ridge. The callus. Right

there, on the side of my index finger,

yellow-hard, from months ago,

from a version of me that used to linger

over pages, fill margins, go

long on everything. I haven't done

that in I don't know how long.

The pen scratched through. My name came undone

slightly at the end, gone

a little shaky. A little faint.

The callus pressed into the pen

like it was waiting. Like it ain't

heard that I stopped. Like then

is still now, somewhere.

I gave the pen back.