22
Nov
09

untitled 11/21/2009

I can still smell

The cigar

And still taste it,

Even after

Washing it away

With the wine.

The smell of it

Clinging to my hands,

Much like the ink

From my fountain pens

Used to stain my fingers

After writing

For hours on end.

The sound of nib

Against page

Has been replaced

By the tapping

Of keys.

The smell of ink and paper

Has been replaced

By

A lack of anything

And everything.

The hurried scribbles

And smudges on the page

Have been usurped

By the backspace key

And spell check tools.

Moving forward feels

Like a retreat away

From my self.

And yet

Here I am-

Still hunting

For the words

That will

Outlive

This moment.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

November 21, 2009

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