Let me pen an ode for you
Trace the stylus that I have across the page
Leaving its liquid long behind
On that smooth weave that sits sometimes in drawers
And for which I often gladly reach
Delighting in its smell no less than in
The feel of it under my fingers
Show to you the love I make for you
In as many lines as you can read
And I can write before I can no longer grip
My pen
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