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Life is the notebook I left on the edge of my desk, with my window wide open.
It’s pages don’t only get filled with my words.

As long as my window stays open, life’s pages get spontaneously caressed by changes in the wind.
They get teased by the delicate flipping of each page with my warm fingers.
They get kissed by the landing of a small insect.
Some pages are left empty, while others are so full, of once oozing ink.

Life is a notebook left on my ledge with my window open.
And I am not the only one who gives the pages love.

-Ana Carolina