I Give This To You

I find this notebook,
in a poetic surge,
left under hills of spent tissues.
A longing to write
has been trapped inside
my façade of well being.

I breathe to the rhythm that
is not my own
- if life lets breath come
at all –
and I struggle to find something
of you.

Within it pages,
this tattered book,
holds words – terrible verses –
meant to remind me that
you are a friend worth fighting
for, losing rest for.
Sometimes I think you forget
the midnight calls and smiles
I’ve gotten – given.
Eyes water to think of you gone
your scent and voice
only story lines in my mind.
This, my fear.

So I replace the book,
with newly inked pages,
under the tissue hills
that have risen to mountains.