I filled a notebook with writing
because I was afraid of forgetting
what I was living,
what I was thinking.
When the notebook was filled
I set it on my desk
and piled books and papers
on it until it disappeared
from sight.
I never considered how it felt
to be so loved
and needed
then cast aside
when my use for it had passed.
I remembered her tonight
and pulled her out from the mess.
I have to yet to open her pages
but they are filled
and ready
to tell me all I have forgotten
and what I have yet to do.
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