My little black notebook of muses

I would spend a lifetime writing volumes

About her. Each protruding rib would be

The slim spine of a Moleskine. I’d adapt

A daily journal for her mouth.

Three-hundred and sixty-five pages

Divided between her lips and tongue.

Another would be for her smile. Two

Years, gone by just like that. I’d add

A couple of pocket-sized notebooks for

Her eyes. I’d trace the shape of her body

Curled up next to mine, and I’d mail it

Along with a poem of how beautiful

She looks when she’s asleep. Another

Notebook would be filled with a

Description of her reading what I’ve

Written. The way her slender finger

Traces each line, and how she bites

Her lower lip when she finishes and

Starts to read again. So far, she’s been

Through seventeen notebooks.

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