You wrote love letters
on a crumpled up piece of paper
you always had in your back pocket.
And you always carried a pen
that stained your pockets ink blue
and occasionally burst.
You had to be prepared
for the gust that would come
and knock you off your feet.
And then you would write the letter
and finally send it.
You could not be patient,
the notebooks you had,
clean and lined,
were always two feet away.
There would be no time to get them,
when the gust came.
You never wrote the letter.
Not one you would send.
But you used up all the ink in the pen,
spilling your pre-teen vocabulary
onto crumpled paper.
I suppose it is nice,
having the time to walk to a notebook,
no longer carrying ripped paper,
and being stained by ink.