If I were an empty notebook,
I would be made of hardy leather.
The front cover would be thicker than bone
and the back cover alone able to hide
my empty thoughts better than any diary lock.
And If I were an empty notebook, the recycled paper inside
would be breath thin and smell like untold stories,
the dog-eared folds of unfinished goals marking the chapters.
But If I were an empty notebook, and you were the writer,
I’d let you flip through the pages, and feel the softness of my skin,
the same leather that others might have thought cruel, or coarse,
but of course to you, would soften in your hands.
And if I were your notebook,
I would no longer be an empty notebook
for you could write your name on the first page in ink,
and let your secrets slide off your shoulder
into my pages for safekeeping.
You could fill me with your jokes and thoughts,
photos and ticket stubs from planes and plays,
brochures picked from public libraries and museums.
You could write the pain and joy and love
of everyday, of every second,
and hungrily, I would soak it up,
holding the moments of our life together,
all the leaves of our time forever,
with nothing but my old and well-worn spine.