lucid • midnight poetry

blue pen

He's sat next to you in class for every day of the semester.

You don't know much more than his name. He seems shy, and truth be told, you're not too outgoing yourself. But every class as you're sitting down, you share a quick smile before the lecture starts.

When taking notes, you like to use different colours. Your notebook is a splash of the rainbow as you turn the pages, a new colour of pen for every day.

His notebook is simple and clean. Black ink on a fresh white page each time. You would envy his neat hand if you paid attention. It shows a level of organization most people could only hope for.

Today he shows up barely in time, clutching only his notebook. He fumbles in the pocket of his jacket, but comes up empty. As soon as the lecture begins, you realize the problem.

He doesn't have a pen.

His notebook sits on the table, opened neatly to a clean page. Yet it remains blank as the professor starts to speak.

Quietly, you dig in your bag for one of your pens. There's no black one.

He takes the proffered turquoise-blue ballpoint with a faint smile, examining it in his hand. His fingers are long and nimble, turning the pen skilfully, sliding the cap off with one hand.

The lecture continues, and if you glanced back at his page part way, you wouldn't see the neat printing that fills the first half of the book.

Instead a beautiful landscape sprawls across the page, mountains, rivers and trees sketched out in long, smooth lines. There's no indication it has anything to do with the fifth-century Greek architecture you're studying. It's astonishing how he managed to shade and contour the hillsides with nothing but a blue pen.

His gaze flicks up to you. He flushes, dropping the pen and refusing to meet your eye. Straightening in his seat, he focuses on the professor at the front.

Yet within moments, the blue pen is flying across the page again, filling in details. His fingers roll swiftly along the ballpoint, using the ink in ways you hadn't thought possible.

By the end of class, not a single sentence has been written about Ancient Greece.

The students around him start to pack up. The blue pen rolls slowly across the table to your notebook. You pause, glancing between your notes and his.

He slides his long fingers into his hair, bowing his head. "Thanks. Sorry."

For the pen?

"I just... I can't focus unless I write in dark ink," he says, so softly no one else can hear. "Your blue pen - it's meant for art, not writing."

Slowly, the page is torn from your notebook. He watches from the corner of his eye, nervously fingering his own paper. And you slide him your notes, written hastily in dark brown pen.

"Trade you."

—midnight thoughts
©️2016