Writing

I am a notebook

spiral bound

spinning down the length of the paper

twisting

turning

twirling

until I hit the bottom

and then I spin back up

the lines passing by quicker and quicker each time

What am I? 

A doormat for your shoes? 

Cobblestone for your steps? 

Am I meant for nothing more 

than a book, open pages, 

assigned by your english professor, 

i hear your battle cry

winning.

i feel the tremors

loss.

they think delicate,

but snowflakes don’t shatter

bulletproof glass?

they think delicate

draw.

We run back to your house,

The lights are still on,

And they cover your freckled face,

Like it's the sun.

The grass brushes our feet,

And the wind catches in your hair,

Note: This is listed as "fiction" but all stories about Earl are real. 

It rings slow and steady,

Matching to my rocking.

A folded shelter forbidding the entry of you.

Blinking once-

Twice,