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Notebook’s last page
beyond which I write
on air,
pencil on the clouds,
make words of scribbled trees,
twist longhand loops
along the breeze.

The white cup has caught
its last drip of thoughts
and overflows,
now words rain wasted
on
no page.

Is there existence
when the covers close?
Do I
exist,
when these notes are lost?

Of the countless poets
that blacken the white page
all but a fistful
sign their names on air,
breathed in
breathed out
unknown.

 

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