Between ink tears
and paper faces,
lies a ripped, scratched,
scribbled story that’s
much more beautiful
than the outward binding
that might show.
Inside are
blank pages,
torn pages,
sure and unsure drafts.
Some of them contain
dog eared bookmarks,
and some of them will
be lost, or already are.
Inside, there are no chapters,
comfortable margins,
or set lines.
What lasts are the
eraser marks,
pencil lines,
permanent inkblots.
Between the first cover and the last,
lies fresh paper for graphite thoughts
and bleeding ink actions.