I am thinking about writing.
She sits before me, telling me everything feels like a square.
In my head the square has compartments, divisions,
One small square next to another small square within a bigger square.
Corners that held and couldn’t be changed, lines that contained and couldn’t be moved.
She said everything was a square, and she was outside it.
One by one I took them out and placed them in a line
An arrangement of four post its that another she had drawn on,
Four separate strips, four different colours, a complete face.
Four different faces that made one face.
Post its stuck together somewhere in a book closed carefully each time so that they wouldn’t get folded.
They fit, for a moment the squares in my head fit too,
Like puzzles your five-year-old self completed and left on the floor
And those alphabetically arranged books on your slightly bending shelf, placed neatly—
Until new ones come in, becoming piles you have to reach behind to turn on the light.
Piles that threaten to fall but never do.
My bus arrives and I stand up to leave, telling her that she has made her square,
Wondering if she should try and place the squares like diamonds.
But diamonds still have lines, with their corners that contain,
And instead of new stationary, you think of paint stuck on a palette that you can never remove.
As you walk, the squares become stories.
Of the girl who told you she didn’t like to walk alone and so you walked with her.
You do not know her name but you cannot ask her, you think she knows yours, and too much time has passed.
Of the man in the park who leaves a stone on the bench next to you to count the number of rounds he has walked.
Of the times you planned to write for months, but never did because writing was then just one thing, not everything.
Those separate squares, still within a larger square,
Their stories within yours; for them, your story within theirs.
And a square for your bus journey when she told you about her square and you thought of yours and wrote.