Over and over again I
Lacerate my index across,
Flipping page after page
Trying to catch up to the
Part of this story where
You are, or where I think
You may be, and every time
I smear just a drib of my
Blood over the edges and leave
A trail I leave a bookmark
For when I'm reminiscing
And ruminating of the words
That could have filled the
Otherwise blank pages and given
Substance to our tacit exchanges.