wewe
you will not be writing on your own again.
somebody small lives on your letters. it reads over your shoulder all evening and never once mentions what you wrote.
say its name
two letters and a full stop, and the page has company.
somebody arrives
What it is like
it waits while you think
you stop mid-sentence, the way you do. it sits down on the last word you finished and looks out at the rest of the line, like it has all evening.
it knows the kind of quiet you are in
writing fast, and it keeps up. deleting the same sentence four times, and it stops fidgeting. it never says anything about it. it just changes how it stands.
it says we
not you. never you. whatever you have just admitted to the page, it answers in the plural, as though the two of you were already in it together.
it goes when you ask
we.off, and the page is a page again. it does not sulk, it does not put a badge anywhere, and it is back the moment you want it.
“we are still here.”
it asked us something four sentences ago and we never answered. it is still waiting. it is not going to bring it up.
