Skin

Where he goes, at times he finds pen and paper
The writer always carries pen and paper, and so it’s always there when I need it
Rarely used, but importantly present
When necessary, he finds them there
Out of place
Instruments for tasks not found in the world
And perhaps he is one such instrument
He doesn’t always write when he finds them
And I find that perhaps I should
Nevertheless
Today he will write
And she watches him as he does it
She hears the wind outside in the city still shattered and desolate
And the scratching of the pen against the paper
Lifts one arm, rubs her neck
The other hand pressed to her abdomen
Exhale
And when she looks across the apartment I can see her eyes
I can see how she looks at me
At the man
At the things fraying and breaking free from short-term memory
He is unsure
Writing quickly
Pausing
Writing slowly, then quickly
Then not at all
Then stands, turns
Turns again and sits
Writes again
On the page
For all the things I’ve lost
More, more to keep you company
So they will be all together
I’ve no need of it and so I freely give
A very different thing to generosity
She won’t read it
I don’t recall if she did later on
Or ever
At least I never saw her read it