I wrote my first serious poem junior year of high school,
my fingers slipping across a sea of silver, striking keys 
to isolate words from the ocean of the English language. 

A few years later, the edge of my laptop screen cracked, 
and the silver keyboard sunk to the depths below my bed. 

But now, another few years later, the replacement has become 
as unresponsive and unmoving as the arctic, causing the silver
to float up from its lost void and break the surface of water. 

Even if the argentate is a liminal necessity, at least for 
this short while, this forgotten entity is reclaimed: my
wayward start is meeting my current successes and vices. 

Indeed, this piece of me is not gone but resides within—
I am only disappointed it took a loss to remind me of 
this love, of this moonlit but never blackened journey.