Poem: The journal

I brush my thumb over soft leather that I guess a salesman would refer to as buttery. It is a classic brown, less intense than coffee, that reminds me of milk chocolate softened by the sun or the heat of a warm hand. The pages are edged with the tiniest sliver of gold, so that when pressed together, it adds an air of luxury and refinement, but individually is subtle. Each page is crowded with writing. I notice the propensity for blue ink, but there are smatterings of black, green and purple, as if creativity could only be held in restraint for so long. The writing starts off crisp and neat, letters carefully rounded and swirled, but it gains slope and size as the pages go on, as if the words came faster and faster, bursting out of the author’s imagination and on to the page in an increasingly messy scrawl. I know, all too well, how good intentions fall into disarray with time and passion.