The Journal

Those small words representing so much -
only ink lines
on pages of paper.  

She reads the shapes written by her hand
of years ago: hard to believe:
Was she like that?
Did she do that?  
Did she feel that?
Here she is now, indelible as
ink on her brain's pages,
stinking of regret, fear
sharp on her tongue, sweating
agony, uncertain -
but here she was, 
surviving at some cost, grown, changed
worn, but
with a different life now.

She misses them, those people gone
but recorded, and 
she nearly missed herself once - nearly 
but not quite.

previous poem