You're not vain
In order for you to react to this poem
You'd have to be sure
that it was about you,
That its words
really did intend to brush
across your consciousness,
That the image you see reflected
in the mirror (for it is a mirror)
is not a trick of the light
nor vain imagining
but you, you, you.
A couple of pages away was another scrap of text with no title:
I like to imagine him thinking about me, lying back and sketching an image of me in his mind. I fill in the details one by one: the angles of his long limbs; his eyes nearly closed; his lips nearly parted. The image of him in my mind is building an image of me; I am remaking myself for him, through him, tracing my curves with his fingers, etching the lines of his body deeper and deeper into my consciousness, his firm brushstrokes building to a bold bright image. I can see myself in his eyes and in his hands, and that's when I touch myself, the I in his eyes, the I who wields the pen, reflecting and refracting, my artist's fingers blending & blurring & softening the lines between us into a hundred shades of light.
The notebook is full of scribbled-out shopping lists and to-do lists, too, all "Stuff to pack" and "Things to do (Wednesday)", but I'm not going to transcribe all of them; I'm not quite that desperate for blogging material. Yet.
Today's subject line is brought to you by the (sadly, apparently now defunct) British Society for Scholars Wondering If The Line ‘These fragments I have shored against my ruin’ should have been ‘These fragments have I shored against my ruin’ (neither: it's 'ruins', plural, of course, as any fule kno), though if you hold it up to your ear you may hear a hint of a shell that sang too.