I write on it every day
It has been crinkled and torn
It’s the only thing I know
I can remake from ashes

Some notes in pencil are faded
Many, seemingly in ink and paint,
are more permanent
I imagine the words etched therein,
as vivid hues of echoes and memories

I continue to keep my journals there
every waking moment
filling up the remaining blank pages
in worn and patchwork volumes
The bindings have always been resilient