Wednesday, July 6, 2011

The book.

So yesterday I finished writing our book
and I wanted so desperately to
and so achingly to not.

It was raining yesterday while I was writing,
and there were tears on the window pane.
I couldn't tell if I was hurting, or if the hurt
was alive and its own
maybe I was the parasite
and the feeling was the being
maybe I was feeding off the feeling--
--maybe I was leeching--
just to feel alive.

There was no way to un-write our story.
I was almost at the ending.
It wasn't even sad, wasn't wrenching...
The skies had cried for nothing
--their tears unquenching--
The rain was wasted on the window pane
--there were never any tears to hide.

It was so exciting, wasn't it,
the writing?
I wanted so desperately to finish it
that I never stopped to read.

And then, suddenly, it was over.
There were no more pages to turn,
no more letters. I searched frantically for an empty page
--a space.
There's still ink in my pen, I mumbled, blubbering.
There's still more story to write.
But all the pages were gone. I'd filled them all.

I sighed heavily and set down my pen.
I let the ink dry while my eyes got wet
I let my muse die with the dreams I laid dead.

I finished our book--filled it so tight with words
that the pages ran black.
I'd packed in our story with smiles as a filler
and now that it's done I guess
I'll read it
again and again
and forget
that it had to end.