Pen and paper bring back yesterday.
As the elevators rise and fall
I look from the corner of my eye
hoping to see you.
You whom I do not speak to,
but sing to in my morning shower.
I dream that my fingers
will someday slide across your skin
as my pen does across this page.
And that you would hold me,
as this page does ink,
and keep my words
safe
within your pores.