Etchings Of My Waistline On Question Ten

I love that crackle of word-worn pages,
As you flick them past your grubby thumbs,
A voice of mine i haven't heard in ages,
Reminds me of what could have become.

I've squashed the paper with my impatient scrawl,
I hate to think i might forget you,
And those cold mornings walking to school,
And your maths book full of pictures you'd drew.

I'm on question ten and you're on realism style,
I look up, seeing versions of myself on the lines,
Your Bic Crystal having carefully traced my profile,
Onto that loveless paper, i see myself refined.