her back pages

a notebook
found under the front
seat of her car.
wired, sticky,
bent. lying warped
on the wet carpet,
the shell of
a lipstick tube
beside it.
strands of her
long hair.
a small part of you
wants
to leave it there,
to not see
what is written.
but the larger
part of you opens
it to read,
peeling the pages
carefully apart.
you are in there,
the harsh words of
love scorned.
others too.
an honest sketch
of why love failed,
why love
grew at all.
the pages are darkened
with thick
blots of ink, coffee
rings cover the sketches
of birds,
buildings. empty
hearts with
cracks down the middle.
lighting bolts going
nowhere.
some lines
go unfinished, half
thoughts, written murmurs
of distress,
crumbs left behind
of what was in
her mind. carefully
you close it.
you've seen enough.
you it slip back
to where it was.