I worry about them,
scratched in pencil,
sitting still, marks fading,
written in short hand,
edit lines, circles,
little notes aging,
meanings lost to time,
what was I trying to say
two years ago, where
was I when I was walking
Passyunk as the sun set,
where have I gone since then?
I'm afraid they've lost their meaning,
that I've traveled too far
to go back to them, that they've
been wasted on nothing,
left to die anonymously,
left to die ignored,
on my book shelf,
alone.
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