Stationary

A year ago, a friend of mine gave me a pen.
I savoured it.
It meant so much to me
To use something at every opportunity

Surely makes it seem a neccessity

And maybe it was

I kept it safe.

Hidden.

I never let it out of my sight.

Maybe that was my problem.

After a while, I stopped using it.

For fear that it would be damaged.

I didn't want anything to happen to that pen.

The one memory of you that isn't filled with pain.

The pen's broken now.

Snapped, clean in two.

If only every break 

Was so fair.