I Remembered Her Tonight

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.

The Last Page

My hand cramped
as I wrote the final words
across the page. Its black
leather cover had guarded
its contents well.

It does not know it's age,
I am certain it is fully
unaware of it. Only a
sentimental creature could
care about such things.

The pages are all filled
with half-remembered
thoughts, bad poems,
memories, and line
breaks too casual

to remember. Why
do this? Who is this
all for? It's always been
for an audience of one
and always will be.

Morning Notebook

Do you realize there was a point in time when people
almost rioted during a classical music performance?
It's hard to imagine that ever being the case but we
should understand that things were quite different
in the early 20th century. It is easy for us to imagine
a riot for almost any reason but classical music. That
could be our bias against the form.

Don't leave without saying goodbye, it's rude. To this
day I do my best to say goodbye before I leave any
social gathering. It doesn't always work out but I try.

It's always early.

I don't want to be a bore but it's hard to leave the house
sometimes and deal with all the other voices screaming
at you, vying for your attention.

As much as I like you it will almost certainly not work
out. This seems to be a recurring theme.

Groggy, cold, and hungry. Morning is a cruel time.

She is still in bed. I don't want to wake her but I know
she has things to do.

I remember a time when I remembered how much I
miss you.

All this emptiness could fill a canyon.

Run all day, walk all night. The end will come around
and catch you from behind.

I am trying to voice these thoughts in a cogent manner.
For the time being
this will have to do. Feed
this loneliness it's lunch,
It grows hungry again and again.

Whose voice is it I hear? I have always heard it
echo through these curved walls.
Is it me?

Would we be any better or worse off if there had never been
a first or second World War?

All love is War.

Can these eyes see further?