Etched on paper

My pens stains the paper like your memory stains my thoughts. The words long to be smudged and erased by the swipe of an eager palm, but are left in a chaotic disarray of illegible desires. So many times, the blood of regretted scribbles sinks into the irretrievable abyss of the recycled tablet and haunts the memory of the writer at every glance. You never leave my thoughts, like the homeless man outside McDonald's on Jericho Turnpike, waiting for a change in scenery. I need a new you to scribe an improved bed time story, with a princess and prince clad in Dolce and Gabbana and diamonds. That is all.