April 17, 2014 § 2 Comments
I opened up the spiral book,
pages filled with words,
etched carefully on paper, purple pen
a fervent scrawl, filled with meaning
from nine years past.
I wrote with conviction
as strong as the coffee that still stains
the pages and spreads ink
and distorts the words penned
from a familiar place that rushed
to fill the pages of a nearby notebook
with notes of beginnings and of ends.
It’s a story I once knew
so well, that now sounds like a fiction
from a distant place,
from another’s hand.