A name penciled in .007 lead seems to press on my chest,

Printed in the top right portion of my Music History notes.

The well-used eraser groans within itself as

I attempt to make memory

Become rubber shreds.


Glances remorsefully from behind the bars of her paper prison,

Knowing full well I would never hold her against her will.

Thank God, I never write in pen.


Just a ghost on the page,

Which rips as I try my hand at exorcism.

Such inefficient utensils, erasers.