I carry you around as
if you're an integral
part of me;
if I lose you,
you can easily be replaced
with the dozens of lined
notebooks hiding in
dusty corners of my
apartment,
but would it really
be the same?
You have unsightly
stains from water or
sweat or the time I took
you out in nature,
so we could watch
the sunset,
but I appreciate you
all the same.
And I'll be sad,
when I have to say
goodbye,
when your face
has processed
every whirlwind
of emotion,
every nuance,
every angry ink spill.
You've been here,
when my mind
feels elsewhere,
when my throat
closes up,
and I can only
pick up the pen
