O how much I am like my tattered notebook

The edges of my journal have seen better days

The wire down its spine is bending

The teal blue around the cover is starting to fade

My body seems to be following suit

My vertebrae don’t sit the way they used to

My exterior deteriorates with every year

The colourful hope that surrounds my soul has worn down as I age

Our pages inside are not as white or unstained as they once were

And we are both running out of room to write

Though through the weather

My notebook and I still hold stories and poetry not written anywhere else

SWD 12/2018