Death of a friend

I stare at my writing pen, now mottled gray and green with disuse. With dawning regret, I reach out and cradle its desecrated body. I wonder how could a once-treasured friend been left to wither and rot in apparent disregard. As my tears fall on its moldy body, my pen gives a barely-felt quiver. It might have been remembering the days when it still had the power to create worlds of fiction and prose, or it might have been a last struggle for air, before death finally claimed it. While I ponder its fate, I felt a sigh escape my palm, and in that sunny afternoon, while I held it in my arms, my pen finally died. Wiping tears of sorrow, I think of a fitting eulogy to describe how a simple pen has given everything and more, but still, its end just became a triviality. As my thoughts commenced, i threw my once-pen's body into the trash bin. Then, as in days past, I shrugged and turned away and started typing a story on the keyboard.