The Poem that Wasn’t Yet is Again

On my way

To opening up a clean page

On which to write,

I saw what I thought

Was a poem

Stored in the wrong place.

At first glance,

Upon peeking in at these words,

I still thought it was a poem.

Until I recognized

The individual threads of thought

That were weaving their way

Down the page in note form.

Random bits of words

Unpacking an idea,

Becoming larger

And more important

As they crawled down the page

And down into the recesses

Of my thoughts.

Until I recognized

The epic tale

The broad brushstrokes of which

Were painted there.

These words belong

Not to any poem

Though they are the heart

Of millions of poems

Written about great loves

Throughout history.

No, these words are the notes

To the story I’ve almost written

Uncounted times.

They are the notes

To the only novel

I know I need to write–some day.

Sadly, now is not that time.

But it was nice,

In a bitter-sweet kind of way,

To stumble upon them again

And even nicer to,

At first,

Think they were a poem.