Blank papers rustles about by the wind
Dried ink pots are cracked from neglect
I suppose there are lines I’m supposed to write
There are emotions I expect to pour out
But I think I rather bury them deep within

So here’s what I plan to do instead
Why don’t I give you my quail pen?
To write down the earnest words you long to hear
Why don’t I leave the choice of words to you
I’m not here—at least that’s what I want you to believe
So with my head bowed, I let you write as though you’re me