The paper was laid on the desk in the middle of the room.
There was no pencil, no pen, no lines swollen on the page.
I was curious.
What if there’s something on the other side?
I watched the ink dry on my own paper as I contemplated the journey to flip the paper on the desk,
In the middle of the room, with no pencil and no pen.
What if there’s something written there? Something I wouldn’t want to see.
Couldn’t accept.
Couldn’t decipher.
What if the paper that appeared blank,
In the middle of the room, with no pencil and no pen,
Was a treasure map?
What if it led me to the X that marked the spot?
What if I was already there?
What if this was a trap?
What if this paper, in the middle of the room, on a ragged wooden desk full of splinters,
Was in fact not a piece of paper – blank, nor full of discarded words – but was in fact a photograph,
Flipped to hide its muse.
I had to see.
I signaled my brain that I wanted to move, so I did.
I walked over and stood above, staring at the paper with no pencils, no pens, no lines, on the ragged wooden desk full of splinters in the middle of the room.
I placed my hand on the small white square and closed my eyes.
This could be anything.
This could mean anything.
I flipped it over, in haste,
-like tearing off a bandage-
and there it was.
It was a picture.
It was a photo of you,
taking a photo of me,
when I was happy.
I had found my buried treasure.






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