As I picked up the quill,
Fear made its home in me.
You became the ink,
Made me believe you were indelible.
The story started,
Oh, how beautifully the quill baltered,
How smoothly it glided over
The fresh piece of paper.
Little did I know,
Endings come way before time.
Even before the warmth of a thread is felt,
It snaps.
Every word on the sheet
Felt like a gaping wound.
The story was left to be incomplete...
But when do quill and ink part ways?
New beginnings never come
Without endings.
