She forgot me.

She forgot all about me.

And yet, I am made entirely of her-

(that is, my content is her.

My pages are thin slices of trees, which

died, were bleached and dyed,) -

I am what she was-

I am always a tense behind her-

content to feel the coursing stories rush and run

even if they’re never happening, only happened.

Now I have happened-

 

Once she put her pen to my surface,

Inscribing the inky swirls and/or slashes carefully

at times like fire, always in a haze

She warmed my pages, the crease

of her observing hand absorbing the blots of excess-

I felt pressure and anger,

she spat out punctuation that could kill.

I felt intricate curves and delicate dashes

whisper of fluttering lashes and sunshine

And all the words bending worlds with weight of memory

bowing bending bruising breaking needing kneading

yet never returning-

these phrases inside me keep hurtling and haunting:

It’s been a while...

To be continued...

 

When?