It makes me wonder, as I stare at the wire-framed owl on my desk:
would you be proud of me now,
as I sit, hunched over the blue screen of a fairly new laptop?
Three hours since I decided I should be in bed.
The binding of my journal—A Moleskine—
is coming apart at the seams,
tired from all the times I’ve hassled it,
and demanded that its delicate pages
let me have the last word.
Would you be insulted if I told you I didn’t write about you?
That the pages are not in our romance language?
Or that your passing brought my recognition?
And it makes me wonder what you’d have to say about me.
Every inch of my notebook a Technicolor atlas of O.C.D.
By date, by subject, by chapter.
Each entry with its own sense of importance.
In bold lettering, no less.
The way to do, the way to be and the way to breathe.
It was all boiled down and categorized by you.
And everything had a meaning.
My thesis has been argued,
the event plan scribbled in a margin
and the case proven.
Surrounded by pens and books on journalism.
Your old phone number on my bulletin board.
And it makes me think of you.
