for luciano, because we are also what we have lost

the notebook lives on my bedside table
unassuming
a remnant from honesty month
it remains silent
because beyond the letter you wrote for me within its pages
reading the rest feels akin to spying
gaining access into a private world
although i have the key
i still don't feel safe
your familiar handwriting
as old as our friendship
for that is where it began
with words on a page
on a screen
over the phone
over seven years sustained with words
that makes for a lot of words
and isn't it interesting that we still use the same words and talk about the same things?
i know your script and the lines it makes on a page
better than i can describe your eyes
or your hands
or your mouth
it's the drawings that fascinate me
these linear forms
sad and solitary
i read the quotes that you found interesting
all those years ago
'the world is my idea' - arthur schopenhauer
insight into your mind
your points of inspiration
it meant enough for you
to write it down
twice
once in red and
once in black