Encased in this shell

I wait for you to open

the cherry box and cradle me

once more in your warm palm,

rolling me between the power

in your hands from finger

to finger and then position me

gracefully at just the right angle,

my ink flowing downward 

towards the orb

bathing it in precious indigo

painting what was only

in your mind into reality

one stroke at a time

letters forming words

spoken with silent lips

moistened by a sip

from a cup,

intermission to rest

before continuing to

press me into the sheets

of paper, imprinting images

onto the next page,

invisible ink marking the memory

of everything you are doing

with me today,

line after line,

 heat from the rub,

friction of skin

and writer's calloused hand

upon my slight curve,

going on without stopping

until you tire or I run

out of ink at last,

taking a breather

only to find you ready

to insert another cartridge

and begin the entire

process again.