These years are as notebooks
With margins for words
Confining our lifetimes
On pages, we turn

To fill or be filled
To write or be written
The source of our love
Is so easily forgotten

We pile up the hurt
While we’re hiding the stains
Shifting defenses
And placing the blame

We hold on to sentences
To use in the future
The past is a weapon
For love, we don’t nurture

These days are as letters
We write to each other
Saying the wrong things
We cannot be bothered

Form busy paragraphs
When one word will do
Changing the meaning
To suit me or you

Building up walls
With things that we say
Making excuses
To get through the day

These years full of margins
Of errors in stories
As notebooks, we write in
With heartbreak and worries

Filling in blanks with a casual lie
Drift off the page
In the wink of an eye

Paraphrase loss as a matter of course
Spelling out reasons
For love or divorce

TM DiSarro

©2020 TM DiSarro / MindScapes Publishing

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