A few pages once white now grey,

Thick masking tape to cover the rips like a tigers stripe,

Delicate, thin material with scratch marks,

A brutal appearance though representing so much love.

Scrawls of black ink, some smudged

Showing the hard core of the book and the toughness

Of the leather.

It all starts with dear diary,

But what does it end with?

Magical, how an old few pages can withhold so many memories,

And store so much love.

It holds all my love letters,

And all my pain. You could say,

Dear Diary, you may just be a few pages of old tree —

But you are the locket of love.