Light Pursestrings

This morning I reached a hand inside
and pulled out two pens from dark fathoms,
both engraved with inch long hearts
each ebony - neither from here.

Odd, as I had not thought of crafting today,
of placing fine tips to weary paper,
watching the figures twist and grow
from nothing, catch fire then return to same.

Born: hardened warriors that steal my graphite,
start to sketch themselves unnerved,
with chain-mail coated ice cream colors,
battle axes of cotton candy repute.

Or a biker clothed in mime apparel,
face covered in acrylic dusty blues accents -
an owl, unfurling its birth coverlet
sailing skies with one wing detached.

I fondle these light wrappings,
exclaim soft cries of pleasure from such joys held -
taunt noises that emerge from the inner tappings
of pen upon glass, glass held on paper.

The crinkled noises catching in brain webbing,
mutating to larger girl sounds, of laughter
echoing off noiseless kitchen floorboards,
wall cupboards reminding me where we almost made love.

I suppose these surprises are getting easier;
every sugar-bowl lid hiding another jumpy mouse,
which neither bites too assuredly or for too long
but still rests their regardless, ready to pounce.

Me, debating if I need sweetener for this morning joe,
or if I can handle the bitter blackness, necessary
to wake me after many late night rainstorms.