You'll find me in the pages of my notebooks

In between the quadratic formula and a 

poorly sketched,

but anatomically correct,

set of phalanges.

You'll find me scrunched along the fringes,

gasping for air,

shoved

to

the

side

to make way for an explanation of 

the character Grendel in the purely epic tale of Beowulf.

You'll find me scribbled and scratched out in the smallest of print on a sticky tab,

idly flapping, meant to mark the most grand of the Renaissance artists, 

but only really serving to add some color to the outside of an already

beautifully filled book.

You'll find me on the scrappiest of papers,

my soul transcribed in smudgy graphite

the words of my heart tumbling over each other so as not to disturb the others resting on the page.

And one day, when I am finally lost to the world,

When I can no longer jot down new trails for you to follow,

when I can no longer push pen to paper and create,

you'll find me in the pages of my notebooks.