I miss the felt nib of your pen
skimming my pages like a turtledove
over a cotton cloud.
My margins feel emptier without your squiggles,
arrows snaking around their cramped spaces.
Notes to self.
Watermarks of coffee on my corners.

I miss being a paper womb
fed by a diet of imaginings,
chapters halting at the rim
of a precipice.
Names growing voices.
Witness to your bouts of triumph
and grunts of vexation.
Today I sit here, caked in dust,
watching your deft fingers
leap across a keyboard
in swift motions
and I miss them running across my skin,
a smile of quiet pride on your lips
and in my heart.