The journal opened,
On its own.
Encompassed my thoughts,
My heart,
And bled them onto unlined pages.
Raw, and complete.
Synced up in perfect harmony.

The short hand on the clock moved,
Took its first step,
And shielded clarity,
That no depth could have foretold,
This is what I needed,
On the same page,
The battery started to recharge,
All on its own.

Until after awhile it began to tick,
The clock came unset,
And there was no countdown left to look upon.
It moved at its own pace,
Fate and destiny,
Weaved its intricate web,
Attaching red thread to the tip of my pinky finger,
The cord that stretched to the tip of a finger of someone,
Whose heart, memories, and experiences,
Were that much like my own.

But we can never see who is at the end,
We may cross paths on a busy street,
Our eyes might linger for a moment,
And we may feel struck in the chest,
By an unexplainable force,
Or we may pass without notice,
Always thinking,
That when the book comes to a close,
That soon their hand,
Would fit perfectly in my own.