Make/ this belief/ something/ worth believing in/ so that you can forget/ I exist, and I can believe/ you're no longer/ there

The margins are littered with notes: Scrawled love poems; Anguished understandings; Scribbled doodles of stick figures, dancing; A recipe for a dinner date; Lost phone numbers of dead telephone lines. The text dances at the margins, as if the book were a stage and the words, the music but not the show, and you and I, we pull up our chairs, watching in silence for the performance someone's pen wrote out, long ago, some other room, and we applaud.