you still exist in the crinkled pages of my notebook. last autumn i dog-eared the top corners so i would find my way back. your veins dance with the curves and loops of my frail frail words. the contours of your dreams lay in the indents of my ballpoint pens. your fears bleed black and blue. your voice--the raspy scratching of graphite before bed. my sentences often sit incomplete because that's how you left-- in the middle without warning because you lacked a single transition. your breath echos at the turn of every page inhale--look back exhale--look forward (i can almost feel your lungs working alongside my own). your blood runs red as i scribble across the pages-- at times i am in a frenzy, lacking control as my hands skirt along the paper. other days, i am silent, waiting for my hand to pick up the pen and bring you to life.
i keep telling myself that you still exist in the crinkled pages of my notebook but every time i close its covers shut, i can't seem to find you.