A poem by Willow Isobel Martin

The new year opens like a fresh diary

But there’s already a smudge of my cherry lip gloss on the corner,

And the pages feel heavy,

Empty, yet brimming with dreams to be written.

And secrets I’ve yet to spill.

I run my fingers down the leather spine,

Inhaling the scent of something both new and nostalgic,

Like perfume on old Polaroids,

Like salt air and mistakes.

It’s a little messy,

A little too full already—

But it’s mine.

And though it overwhelms me,

I let it pull me under.

This is my story to trace,

My love letter to time,

And the pages will turn,

Even if I smear the ink.