I watch you blink. In the quiet.
I watch and do not realize.
The blade of morning light sings and yells and skips on your wooden floor.
We did what came as nature to us.
Writing.
Tracing out new words.
Letters. Stories.
We began to fill each others pages. Did we think of our penmanship?
At times perhaps.
Sometimes even now.
Im sitting at a stoplight.
Im washing dishes.
Im making dinner.
And maybe...
I could have left a window open or something.
A little wind will blow back some of those pages to the chapters I didn't remember.
Im cleaning maybe. Dusting. And there it is again.
Spills to the floor opening right back up to where I left it.
I never meant to always keep the book with me.
In fact I remember... I remember choosing not to.
I am the book it seems.
I don't know if you remember the same way that I remember.
But I know you remember some.
There were other writers, with different pens.
Some told happy stories.
Some could only write in panic and fear.
They wrote all the same as long as I would let them.
You write a different story now.
Different pages.
Different book.
I watch you blink. In the quiet.
I watch and do not realize.
The blade of morning light sings and yells and skips on your wooden floor.
