The Romance is Dead

It happened almost abruptly. Our love affair had to come to an end. After years, so many years, I decided that it was time to start moving on. I still want to be friends. Really close friends, if possible. I’ll still call on you when I’m feeling weak and lonely and in need of the comfort only you can bring me. I’ll probably be drunk.

I still remember that day I first saw you. It was in high school. You were there, on the other side of the counter at my favourite shop. I didn’t remember seeing you there before, but I wasn’t ever looking for you before I first saw you. I still go back to that shop, whenever I’m in town.

We were both young, but I was younger than you. I’m still younger than you. You were wrapped up so nicely, and I remember the excitement I felt when I got that first chance to tear you out of your package. I fumbled, with sweaty excitement, and you acquiesced anyway.

Sometimes I recall the memory of that first time I put you together, watching and feeling as your ink flowed for the first time. It was because of my fingers, and my touch.

You never ceased to bring me pleasure. Whenever there was an outpouring from you, because of me, I felt satisfaction. It was through you that I was able to bring myself joy. I love(d) holding you once it was over.

Sometimes I would just stare at you. You frightened me. You compelled me to perform. You never refused.

You, too, must have loved my touch. I could always hear you scratching and feel you bending. You resisted, but never with unconquerable friction. You let me know when I wasn’t holding you quite right, but always gave me another chance to get it right.

But, now, there is no time for another go. My romantic love affair must concede to utility. You are still the most beauty that I have ever held, touched, desired. You permeate the pages that hold the truth of my past.

You will always be my first love.

Dearest fountain pen, I’m sorry.


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