You will find me
In shreds of pencil shavings
Skin smudged
In the clumsy graphite
Of uncertain prose
Rewritten over and over
Until I can taste its dust –
Like charcoal –
In my mouth
Prickling down my throat
To cluster within my veins
Rushing with anxious vanity
To write one final piece
In the fashion
Of a proper goodbye
To these last few pages
Marking the end
Of another precious journal—
Another fragment of me.
Nomad Writer 
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