When I finish a notebook, I always write a poem dedicated to the notebook and time period I used it at the end. Happy, happy to finish this, and as always, start a new one.
I got back to it.
It was quick,
it was slow,
I felt let down and hopeful,
I worried and with that worry bore ulcers into my skin, lovingly touched them, filled them with neosporin, wrapped them up, and tried to will them to heal back into the smooth skin that had once existed there.