Old Notebooks

The notebooks I tore up
sit in bags in the hall.

There's a story in there,
about a girl who disappeared;

a sad poem about the moon.

All the diaries from thirteen
to nineteen,

with the first and second suicide notes
('I'm sorry...' 'I just wish...').

Then boxes and spirals,
houses, stick figure families,

lots of 'FUCKS' in bold black pen,
song lyrics, filled-in squares,

in coloured pencil.
Jagged-edged stars, hearts,

and his name. And his.
And his too,

in bits, nestled together,
time overlapping.

Now or next week, they will be gone
somewhere, each different,

leaves from a windblown tree,
fallen, free,

settled under a blank sky.