100 Blank Pages

I have $12 to my name;
($11, after this notebook)
6 black pens,
and 100 blank pages.
A clean slate.

I own 1 piece of furniture;
(in an empty apartment)
4 dress shirts,
and all the space I don’t need.
A fresh start.

28 years of emotions;
(to understand none of them)
plus 17 synonyms,
and they are all unsure.
A new person.

I can remember phone numbers,
but not birthdays,
Pity the starving artist,
but not empathize,
Start over,
but not anew.

I have,
blue lines
and black ink,
an absence of your presence,
and new wings of red and gold.

I have,
100 blank pages,
and the only thing,
I can think to write,
is your name.


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