The pen I kept for ten years

Found it today in the pocket of my old jacket—still works, but the grip’s worn down to a nub. I remember giving it to a kid on the 8:15 ferry last winter, said he’d write his first poem with it. Never saw him again. The ink’s dried out now, but the barrel’s still warm from holding. Sometimes I think that’s all we leave behind—something half-used, something someone else might finish.