A pen lies down quietly on a table. It sings a song that it has forgotten. It sighs like a day. It is a lonely pen.
The pen misses the warmth of hand. Hand has gone on to do other things.
And then, hand comes back. It has been many years since pen saw hand.
Hand and pen do a dance.
Hand rolls pen over.
Hand has touched many pens.
But hand still loves this pen the most.
It is the pen that hand used when hand was a child.
Hand picks up the pen.
The pen is out of ink.
The hand is withered and arthritic.
All the stories we could have written.
All the days you could have been in my pocket.
We are here
Hand and Pen do a dance.
End of Play.