I used ink pens for a while,
the kind that cause
odd black orbs
in between the covers,
the stains of still-birthed poems.
They resist laundering,
saying let there be a marking
that we existed.
Only for a while,
only in your head,
no time for paper,
we were perfect.
But without memory,
allow us to remain
a tribute
to your mid-night creations.


Richmond, VA

Judy is a poet, writing for three years. 
Check out her website.