my words mean nothing,
and chalk can be erased.
perhaps in the dust i inhale
is every belief i once held.
every morning, a new room,
spotless and clean.
they write so quickly,
and ink bleeds on the tables;
i see a new stroke each day.
to mean so much,
to never disappear when you leave.
their wood is marked,
the navy blue and the bright red.
eyes follow my hands,
my fingers make figures for your memory,
forget me not, please,
if i don’t write tomorrow.
