This Is Not A Heart

I see you on the bus. You are listening to your iPod and writing/drawing in your dogeared Moleskine. The bus stops at an intersection, and you look up briefly and catch my eye, and I look away, and you look out the window and watch the passersby. You nibble on your pen cap, scratch your head, cross your legs, and start a new page. I just want to know what you write about. I just want you to know I want to be your muse.  I pine for your poetics. I pine for your way with words. I pine for your sentimental doodles. I pine for you. You are creative like Hemingway, Matisse, and Picasso.

I want to know what inspires you. If I could skim through the pages of your Moleskine, I would know what you have seen, where you have been, and what you have done. I would notice where your handwriting changes a little bit because sometimes you aren’t sober when you’re inspired. I would notice the gaps in time where you have no entries. I would notice the words you crossed out because you found a better way to say it. I imagine your journal is filled with voyeuristic quotations, song lyrics, witty banter, philosophies about life, bloggable memes, and the names of women you’ve slept with. I want my name to be in your Moleskine. I want your name to be in my Moleskine.

I hope you prefer the plain to the ruled or squared styles because you’re a boy that doesn’t like margins, boxes, and limitations. A pure, innocent, blank canvas is your favorite. If I could show you my Moleskine, and you could show me yours, we might fall in love, and you could be my second canvas, and I could be yours.