I kept the journal under my bed
So I could ask myself how I feel.
Why this person pissed me off.
Who I was that day.
But even after I am done leaving ink stains on the loose leaf, and I shove the journal back to its original spot on the wood floor,
the story isn’t over.
The perfect brown, creaky panels underneath my bed keep the words flowing.
They absorb the illegible script and write their own tall tales.
So I said, “Why don’t you ever let me in on the story?”
I got no response.
I checked the back of the notebook for new words that weren’t written by me. But by the hardwood author.
I tossed the blue, spiral page keeper aside and moved on to better things.
But when all the suns went down and all the sons said goodnight,
I realized.
That the floors do write sonnets and novels in my notebook,
They just get the words to come to life,
through me.