I could have been the book of me.
page by day,
turn by night.
paragraphs come and go.
punctuation is manners either I have
or have forgotten.
I can only look back at chapter heading in surmise.
no clue when they are actually happening.
this life has already been several books,
published for a small circle of friends.
everybody else just gets the cover-shot.
a few read the insert for themselves.
don’t expect much of that cover to cover from anyone.
memory for myself is the work of a highlighter,
mostly made of nouns and events.
I can catch the gist and then reflect.
that’s about as much as interest can do for me.
for there is the page of this day
and I will create words to represent.
if you really cared
you’d read between the lines . . .
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