Ode To A Dying Pen

I picked you up off the ground
in my hall last semester,
just when I was running
out of good pens.
Your blue ink never stained
my fingertips, or
the paper.
You have served me well,
faithful companion.
I have grown so attached to
your clicks,
the way you press down
so smoothly to the page,
the fluidity of your movements.
But soon,
as all the others have come and gone,
you too will fade
into scratchy splotches,
and I will hold a memorial
after I toss you
into the waste bin.

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