I sit listening
for something to inspire
my words
spoken aloud
in a voice
I suppose is mine

under that I hear the pen
tap the page
there’s something young
and tender about the sound

and there
I think I’ve found
what I was looking for

a memory
I suppose is mine
a book about a blue cat
and feeling wrapped up
safe
the smell of thick, glossy paper
when I touched it
it stuck like the letter P

I’m listening again
not now, but then
I close my eyes and
hear her voice
that olive tree laugh behind her words
and the way they felt soft
and curled up at the ends

was I tired then?
or could I taste the urgency of life?
around then, I’d stay up nights
“show me what happens when we die”

perhaps tonight
I’m tired
listening as the memory fades
no questions burning my lips
just the sound of a pen
words curled up
at the end
and her voice
as it drifts away