My Memory Book
~a poem by Bea~
Each and every year I,
Inspired by the season changes and metropolitan smells,
Would press leaves and other found things
In a leather book given to me by my grandfather
Antique & fragid just like him.
The book smelled of nice things,
Of sunsets, and bestfriends, and high school crushes.
It smelled like libraries, and coffee shops
And your favorite rock band.
I took that book everywhere.
I used it as a journal, too.
I would write my feelings there
And the book would listen to me,
Sewing the navy-blue ink in its worn pages.
One day, my grandfather died.
He would take me to carnivals and buy me fairy floss.
That day I scribbled six pages of agony and sadness
With my lucky, navy-blue pen.
And, without realising it,
I had no more blank &interesting pages left.
I had finished them all.
Yet another friend gone - my dear memory book.
