Worn-down pencil

It was long as a Sunday afternoon and smelled of cedar. We sharpened it so many times it now fits between two fingers: it wrote down phone numbers, a sum that didn't add up, the name of someone who no longer calls.

Every word cost it wood. That's why it writes lower and lower, closer to the hand, like someone who now says only what must be said.

One day there will be no pencil: just the last word, held between two fingers, refusing to let it go.