She handed me a pen or a pencil and a piece of paper.
Or else it was a quill and a bottle of ink or a typewriter.
Maybe not paper either, but she offered me her wrist
or her elongated neck
And told me, here this is where your life begins,
where each tendril of each letter forms your veins
and in the inked frenzy of my rebirth I thanked her.
Communicated in how my hands grazed the writing surface;
and she grinned - or she moaned - or she sighed;
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