I Signed His Name

It was black.
The pen I used,
To sign his name.
It was black and every shade of gray,
Every color.
And I signed his name carefully,
Quickly,
To make it seem like he had written it.
But if you looked close,
It was me.
It was my handwriting.
My black inked pen.
Ive lost the name that was placed on that paper.
Lost it in a maze of closed doors,
And opened windows.
Desks and chair and bookshelves,
Blocked my path.
And he pushed them there.
And I pushed them there.
Wheres the friend I once had?
More than everything,
I wanted whatever he was.
I couldnt even bare to look at the bookcase,
The one I placed in my path.
I was itching to take my ax and chop through,
But I was too scared.
Who can stare down a lion,
But barely glance at one person?
The black inked pen,
Thats who.
Because a factory had built the pen,
And had been in a stage of infancy before it became a pen.
The small spring inside,
The long plastic body.
Those parts were never together before.
And thats where he knew me.
In my little broken factory.
But now Im a black inked pen,
And I cant stand to watch his face.
My factory smallness all comes back,
And all the black ink Ive spread,
Vanishes like it never happened.
I go soft,
When my parts are taken away from the black ink.
What had become of this all?
Why cant I get it back.
I dream of the answers,
And wonder what will happen.
But more than anything,
I long to lash out of my bubble,
And grab him close,
And never let go.
So I signed his name.
Knowing he would never know,
Never see it.
But I stand behind the door,
And wait for the day,
When Ill take him out the window with me.
When the ocean will take us