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.