Fill my notebook with dreams I haven’t dreamed,
with names I haven’t heard before or ever since.
Fill my heart like I fill my notebook:
gradually, messy and obscene,
tidy with well-placed sticker garnishes.
Fill my mind with words to scribble
fanatically into corners, falling into inky puddles,
with phrases that make hearts stutter in anticipation.
Fill my heart with madness,
inflammatory passages I cram into corners,
hard pressed into another heated embrace of the past.
For an empty notebook is a tempting space to lay bear
the fruits of thoughts and fantasies,
a home to land flittering dreams
that otherwise cause a cacophony of noise
that would drive any other person
rather quite mad.