Do you remember when
We used to write our story
My story
I whisper
The words came
Before you came to help me
She settles in beside me
I remember the pages
Beautiful white sheets
Filled up with black letters
And skin
People were important then too
They made the pages
Hard to imagine that
Every day I had something to write
You were dying
She ventures
That makes the pen flow
The pages were important
I remember the weight and smell
Of each journal
Heavy and putrid
Full and satisfying
A record
Evidence
What happened to them
She asks
She knows the answer
But I tell her
I threw them all away
Burnt a few pages too
That was magical
An adventure that led
To different words
Our story
She says
And I hold her
In agreement
This is our journal now.
Oh so sad to have lost all that history. But I LOVE "This is our journal now." Hoping the pages are happier than the old ones.
ReplyDeleteI often think my poetry is like a kind of journal.
ReplyDeleteSo lovely … sigh. (Rosemary is right about about our poetry / journaling.)
ReplyDeleteDuscarded sadbessa, and a new "lournal now'. Positivity reigns.
ReplyDeleteStories need to be written. Poem them with your words
ReplyDeleteMuchđź’–love