The paper screams

for me to reunite him with his love.

The paper and the pencil,

they seem like the perfect pair.

Who am I to keep them apart?

I fill his empty lines with dark letters,

so he can keep a piece of her

even when she’s gone.

The eraser is his mistress.

She needs him close too,

So I erase any trace of graphite.

Her gray mess,

scrubbed clean

from his perfect,

white background.

It becomes a vicious cycle

From one lover to the other,

And I become torn between them