I stare at blank pages and laugh at our similarities
Emptiness
A blank slate could be something admired
But what is paper really worth without some sort of marking
Whether they be markings of seemingly irrelevance, marks give meaning
But empty is a cup filled with nothingness

My pages may be blank but they are not clean
Them
They each have left their marks just not with ink
My book is mine but they have added in their part
Marks, sure, I can hide at first glance
But glances become stares when the story is intriguing enough

In what appears disorganized damage, there is an order
First
She took my book in her hand without asking
Skimming through the pages of unauthorized territory
She leaves behind a crinkle on every page from her careless game
But I suppose the book is my responsibility

What might be worse, I handed the book to the next
Second
We wrote together the present and the future
Forever leaving an ambivalent past
I don’t know if she ripped pages out completely leaving a hole
A gap where promises once were

She may have simply removed the ink
Magic
A simple flick of the wrist and the words are faded
How can a page filled with hidden words hold more emptiness
I try to begin to write over these pseudo blank spaces
But my body is crippled from what I see as I stare, and I laugh