My Friend, My Lover, My Flame

I have a man. We've been together since I was six years-old. We were friends at first. He kept me company while I tapped my fingers on my mother's IBM Selectric II typewriter.

I clicked away at my story. It was about a princess who lost her hat.

Anyway, back to my man. He's loyal. He's been with me all these years. The relationship has grown. We used to be friends.

But then I turned 16.
It all changed.
We became lovers.

I was in love with him from the moment I opened my green composition notebook.
He stayed with me, through every poem, every story, every lost love.
He was with me when my first boyfriend broke my heart.
He stayed with me when I wrote poem after poem, short story after short story.

I went to college. We remained hard, fast, in love.

He's mine.
He will always be.

Every time I gripped my felt tip pen, he was there, listening to every word, encouraging me to use my voice.

He stayed with me through Israel, London, Ithaca, Spain, Croatia, France, Brooklyn, Manhattan, The Upper West Side, 87th Street, Park Slope, he's been there, and he'll always be there.

I don't use a pen anymore; only rarely. But when I feel my fingers touch the keys, my man is listening, he's here, by my side. He's caressing my back, he's stroking my hands. He's my one and only true love, and he'll never let me down.

My man.
His name
is
Writing.