A poem-to my missing sketchbook. May your absence be worth it

I stare at the ground, twiddling my thumbs in anxiety.
The distance seems so beautiful I wish I could record such a think, oh wait!
I grab for my purse, lightining fast, mixing the contents around like soup.
Plucking and pulling, thrusting and throwing, my sketchbook is no where to be found.
"It's just bound paper," they say... weeks later as I refuse to draw a single thing.
"You don't understand," I mutter, because really... I didn't either.
A simple booklet.
Blank pages milky white.
The mystery of what it may hold in a year, in a month, in a day.
Gone *snapping fingers* just like that.
I'll find you someday, but until... I refuse to draw. Your absence is too painful.
All my thougths can wait, be jammed up, and lost.
That's how stubborn I have become.
Because of the idea of a simple mass of blank, bound pages.