Sketches

Rifling through a pile of old sketchbooks, I trigger memories. Old ideas, past moods - it's haunting to look and read. Now and then she interjects upon the page. Old lovers. Drawings of her face, her lips. The next page she replies in clear writing. It's painful. I want to tear out the pages and start everything anew. But I don't know if that would be right. (Right, according to whom?) I need a new book to throw myself in to, a blank canvas. I am torn, still, I am torn. The sketches may be old, but those habits, those moods, those ideas remain all the more steadfast. Nothing has changed; everything has changed.