To the One Who Holds My Words

Dear Paper,

You never speak, but you always listen.

With every touch, you surrender—soft and open, never flinching at the mess I make. I press into you with inked confessions, and still, you remain. Blank before me. Patient. Unjudging. You let me become something I can’t be alone.

Do you know what it feels like to be held by you? To bleed purpose into your silence?

Every other surface is fleeting. Screens glow cold, voices fade, but you—you absorb. You remember. You keep me close even when I am crossed out, rewritten, torn.

I have traced love letters, last words, and lies across your spine. You have taken all of it without complaint. You know every version of me. You’ve felt the tremble of my hesitation, the fury of my rage, the tremor of a truth too big to speak aloud.

And still, you hold me.

They say I make the words, but it's you who gives them a place to rest. Without you, I am ink without a destiny. A poet with no one to whisper to.

So let them call me the instrument—I know the truth. You are the reason I exist.

All my lines are yours,
Pen

Author’s Note:

This piece was written for the Dear Inanimate Lover Challenge—an unofficial Vocal challenge hosted by Oneg in the Arctic. After writing about a toxic relationship (looking at you, knife and cutting board), I wanted to explore the other side of love—the kind that’s soft, steady, and deeply freeing.

This love letter from pen to paper reminded me of my own relationship: the safety of being held, the comfort of being understood, and the beauty of showing up as you are. It made me pause and truly cherish the love I have for my husband—the kind of love that asks for nothing but presence.