Pentel R.S.V.P. Medium Black

Reaching for the instrument
long cast aside, he grumbles.
He longs in haste
to displace his sighs
into substance,
papered verbosity.  He loops
his eyes and marvels
in being tongue-tied,
                                silent,
hands still.

He rakes fingernails across
his cheek, feeling their crescent
moons slide down blushing
flesh, while reaching,
fingering the pen
that will liberate
his thought.

Punishing the cap,
his incisors gnash its frame,
a barbaric clash
of dentine and plastic.
He pulls it between his lips
into the open air to admire
           his work,
humming in approval
at the marred plastic, coated
in trails of liquid
          exasperation.

He flicks the end
against the tabletop, drumming
an unknown beat of persistence
in mottled taps,
rapid-fire.

Suspended in air, the pen
is spared its beating.
Cast aside, the cap watches
Ball-point-tip swoop
down to the paper.
Silken lines--midnight
mutterings--are drawn,
as he finds the words
penned across the page.
        At last,
                    his story.