It’s been a long time since I held a pen. My palms have callouses, as much as my feet. We walked through the cold of concrete in our hearts. Cold is one thing, but it doesn’t seem right for calloused hands to have a pen, paper, and ink.
Is my heart in its place? It might feel and be saddened. It’s not blood; it’s ink that’s at work.
Stories have piled up. The pen needs to be driven into the center of our chest.
Tears adorned with smiles are hidden in the inner pocket of my jacket.
Comments