Ink stained fingers long gone.

It lay covered in a thick film of dust,

The vintage feel unappreciated,

Its layers empty and longing for some love,

It was a go-to once,

Now, it was just another thing

Lying in a home’s  furthest corners.

Quick fingers typed with an enthusiastic fervour,

But forgot the ink stained times,

When fingers would write the deepest of the emotions,

In the crevices of a diary’s pages,

Confiding some secrets and feelings,

Relying on their dependable friend in times of a crisis.

Typing out their troubles,

Had made them forget pouring out their heart.




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