Thus she opened my notebook and read
The first lines you ever wrote,
She nodded and she said, Oh love!
This is the story of his life and it is
Evident in the lines, hidden in the designs
The shivers that make up our spines,
Indeed, what does curve our straight lines,
but the atrocities of ourselves?
Our little worlds, our insides.
Yours go up, she said, flipping the pages
Pointing at me with her eyes, and yes,
I had to agree; my lines went up, oh why.
Slanted up like a reverse parachute, pointing.
It meant happiness till the skies.
Last page, I told her. Yesterday.
So she did turn to yesterday, a look
Of befuddlement crossing her face, as
Her fingers did graze the words going down
Down like the corners of our mouths.
So sad, she said, so sad. But why?
But why, I echoed, suddenly silent
I thought it was done, but the lines,
They don’t lie.
