Treasure.

treasure

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.

M.

Poetry

Mandy Joy Poole View All →

Writer and photographer from remote Labrador, Canada. Just another cold Labradorian chillin' in the Big Land. Can most likely be found walking my dog Grace or behind an iMac screen slowly taking over the interwebs.

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