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.