I love to read novels.
I drink lots of water
I listen to full albums without pause
I eat whole pieces of cake
And I read the whole novel in one sitting.
I don’t like pieces.
Half of an apology.
50 pieces of an 100 piece puzzle
The chorus of a song without the verses.
A few chapters of the book.
We left things in pieces.
In half-truths.
In one-way glances.
I’m still in half worked-through emotions.
Our book is still in the middle of the resolution.
But I’ll never reach the last page.
Because we are in a dormant cold war
Of avoidance and buried aggravation,
I leave a million questions on my lips,
too afraid to escape.
Though I itch to understand,
I’m terrified to ask what happened
because if I light your match
I could restart the fire
and you could burn me to the ground.
So the book remains unwritten.
I wish I could finish it.
It wouldn’t matter if the ending was happy or sad,
I don’t care if I’m left feeling melancholy or morose.
I yearn to write the end of the book.
To scratch the final pen stroke,
To turn to the final page and know
that when I close the back cover,
I know the truth of the finished story.
