Hello, old friend, press me close like a stamp,
Cue strings, draw curtains, for my spotlight, a lamp,
Tighter, hold me, so ink sinks through your page,
In the little black image I give you a stage.
I'll play later scenes, far from home,
The cutouts of scripts told over the phone,
But now press me tight, let the ink sink in,
Let the black dye rich the white you have been,
The spine worked hard and your corners bent in,
The lights of that office that bleached your bright skin.
Press me close, old friend, so that you've held too long,
And the ink is blobbing and smudging all wrong.
Blank page made odd with some image of mine,
Print sat quirked on your stressed ruled lines:
Loud for the words you've so often binned;
Bold to give humour to your pad torn thin;
Good things to remember, when it's hard to forget,
For when I leave once more, and you're left where we met.
Press me close, old friend, so when you turn, on your back,
I'll see that strength clear in you – inked in black.
