We all walk, we all go places; or try to get there. Pens have been more faithful to us than man’s best friend. In fact, they honorarily hone that title in my books. Pens remind me of times. Like when? Blots of ink on this page. Stains of pasta sauce, coffee drips, they’re all romances reoccurring slowly, a fast paced upset moment of the past. They all remind me of Lo. Because in those widowed moments I know she was not mine, nor would she ever be.