i’d love to pour into something
like i used to pour into you and
stop believing i’m a better man
with a slightly elevated blood-alcohol content

i’d love to love something like
i love my pipe. my tea. my beer.
to find a love affair like that
with paper

instead its the pages i never fill
the words i never write on white
in black or blue pen
it’s empty notebooks i feel somehow
begin to lose heart at their unloved fate
wishing ‘if only a true lover of words
had embraced me’