You question my loyalty to pencils as if it’s misplaced.
You ask why I prefer scratched gray over inky black.
I smile.
Pencils are wispy flow handwriting and emotions flooding cozy unlined journals, gray scribbled notes and snuggle blanket dreams.
And there is a perilous sort of impermanence that comes with a thought that can be erased,
As if it’s not quite your own anymore; the world can do what it wants with it.