Why do we write about love?
Why not instead about this pen:
this pen, so many words to come out of it
leaving its mark on the pulverised wood.
Whenever, wherever, always ready to spill
to divulge its contents upon this pressèd sheet
not a screech, not a sound—always willing
willing for its ink to do its spilling.
If only people were so willing
to be loving, to be kind.
Instead, they just enjoy drilling
into the depths of each others’ souls.
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