Would you not stay?
Grace me with another day?
Would you not make words?
And the soft scatch of pen, and paper, and tap, tap, of fingers on keys,
Would you not be heard?
And would you leave me here,
Not a word, no ink in sight?
And not a colourful thought,
To keep me up through the night,
And not the gentle scratch of pen, of paper,
To acompany me, to dawn's soft light?