January 2nd, Annotated

I found it folded soft inside a book—

stop drinking alone on weeknights, two clean lines

in my own hand, the ink still black, the look

of someone meaning every word. The spine

had held it all through February's run,

through the particular Tuesdays I won't name,

through the bottle I told myself was one

and wasn't. My handwriting. My shame

is not exactly shame—it's more the way

you recognize a face you've stopped expecting,

someone you were, briefly, on that day

in January, almost self-correcting.

The crease is soft from weeks inside the page.

The note is not surprised. It knows my age.