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A month, maybe more, now

I am looking for the right paper

not words,

to use

Sprawled across my desk

Are all manner of post-its, notepads, binders, and thin spiral notebooks

I am not in college anymore

My handwriting is too confined by lines

none will do.

At home, there is a box

Of papers bought for cards, papers 

With raised and embossed velvet, too many fibres,

Shiny green, red, black paper holiday colors

In my bag, 

The one that I carry around with me

a journal of handmade paper.

With a length of twine to wrap around;

Keep it closed

My poetry, my life

Somewhere in the middle,

I cut out a rectangle

Uneven

So I keep cutting

before beginning to write.

Dear Andrew,