Set in ink.
The ink a shiny drying black,
the thoughts behind: a shadowed grey,
the page: a yellowed white
If words could be but taken back,
or heard in their intended way,
all could be put to right.
But now she's gone and will not hear
the sentiment I'd have her know,
the type more aptly set.
Such ink dries firm without a smear
Against the paper's brilliant glow.
The page, it yellows yet.