Notes From Ruins

I keep a notebook that smells like smoke,

even though nothing’s burned in years.

Maybe it’s just my hands,

still carrying old endings around.

﹁﹂

The first page has your name crossed out

so many times

It looks like a storm cloud

trying to learn a new shape.

﹁﹂

Some nights I write in fragments

half a sentence,

a single angry word,

Then a grocery list like nothing happened.

﹁﹂

My heartbreak isn’t poetic every day.

Sometimes it’s just me

eating cereal for dinner

and pretending the spoon isn’t shaking.

﹁﹂

I used to think ruins meant finished,

like cracked walls and weeds

and a sign that says DO NOT ENTER.

﹁﹂

But I walk through anyway,

barefoot, stubborn,

finding small things still alive

a button, a laugh,

a memory that doesn’t hurt as much.

﹁﹂

I write it down.

I write it wrong.

I write it again.

﹁﹂

Somewhere between the mess of ink

and the blank space after,

I feel my pulse return

like a drum trying to remember its job.

﹁﹂

Maybe this is how I rebuild

not with bricks,

but with sentences that hold me up

When I can’t.