Death of a Pen (2013)

My pen is running out of ink, and will soon die.  Teeth mark craters on the cap are proof of its valiant service.  My pen will soon die, and I cannot help but to have a heavy heart.  I know that I will eventually have to get a new pen, or else never write again.  How long will I mourn this loss, until I decide to pick up another and touch it to paper?  How long will my widowed hand deny the feel of its suitors?
My hand will meet another pen.  It will hold a new pen, and they will give birth to shapes and symbols.  It will replace the one within my grasp.  Does that make my hand a whore?  Does that make my hand callous, while being calloused?  I hope not, for my hand will in fact meet another pen.  It will have memories of its own, with the scars as proof of the not so tender love.  Then someday it too will die, leaving my hand to form a bond with another.
It is strange to think of death in this way.  Thinking of death, as if it were not exclusive to the living.  How can objects that never lived actually die?  The same way we do -- our bodies quit working.  It is curious to think that pens and people have a lot in common.  We are both once new and are taken from our packaging.  We both work and have purpose, creating memories along the way.  Then without any warning our ink well will dry up, and we die soon thereafter.  Open a new package of pens, and repeat.  Though it does make me wonder, pens can be recycled giving them purpose once again.  What happens to us?