This is the last page of my journal.
I’ve been afraid to write in it.
But stacks of other notebooks await:
old gifts from friends accumulating.
There’s nothing truly left that I can,
think to fill this final lonely page.
Still I’m pointlessly holding to it,
cause I’ve had this book so many years.
Maybe then it is like love to me.
And I have to let it go, to be…
Maybe then it is like life-to-be.
And I have to let it grow past me.
The final page is running thin now.
There’s only room for a line or two…
I’ll use it for something beautiful
Then forget it, to make something new.