Just a Notebook

It was just a notebook.
Just a plain black notebook.
In the plain black notebook was some paper.
Just some paper with some writing in it.
It was just a notebook with some writing in it, that’s all.
That’s all it would be to anyone who saw this notebook.
Just a notebook. With some paper. With some writing in it. That’s all.
But when I saw this notebook, it wasn’t just a notebook.
The writing wasn’t just some writing in this plain black notebook.
In the plain black notebook were some letters,
Some letters in the notebook addressed to me.
Just to me. That’s all.
Someone was thinking of me.
And they wrote their thoughts down in some letters,
Some letters in a plain black notebook addressed to me.
Someone was thinking of me. Just me. That’s all.
And if only they’d known I was thinking of them.
If only I’d made my own plain black notebook addressed to them.
Just a notebook. With some paper. With some writing in it. That’s all.
That’s all it would have been to anyone who saw the notebook.
Just a plain black notebook. But not to them.
They would have opened the notebook and seen some letters.
Some letters in the plain black notebook addressed to them,
And known that someone was thinking of them.
I was thinking of them. Just them. That’s all.
If only I’d written down my thoughts in some letters addressed to them.
To show that I cared. I cared about the plain black notebook.
If only I’d known that this was more than just a notebook.
It was more than just a notebook with some letters in it.
Someone cared. They cared. About me.
They were thinking of me. I was thinking of them. That’s all.
We cared.
And it’s more than just a notebook because I care.
And no matter where I am, I know that they care.
I know that they care because I have the notebook.
The plain black notebook.
And no matter where I am, it might look like just a plain black notebook. That’s all.
But not to me.
It will never be just a notebook.