On this blank sheet,
torn from my bedside journal,
I could record
the unshared grievances
and missed embraces.
All the adventures unexplored.
And when that page was full
I would fold it –
again and again and again –
until it became a tiny tablet.
Then, as you looked away,
I might drop it
into your water and watch
its words dissolve, disperse,
filling your glass
like a love potion. Or poison.
vii. 2024
