it's always been there
the story that never ends
that i tell myself, would never end
that i could be so close to something infinite
brought both security and a smile

walking with a ghost
clinging onto that half memory of years ago
the presence that was never entirely present
just the story whose heart beat
fainter every year
walking with a ghost
never seen and intrinsically a part of me.
resembling the very definition of.

the mist that wholly envelopes
before it fades
that swallowed and surrounded
but flitted away from my fingers and was never
touched.
rushes out and leaves me without air
and icier than before.

today i am sad.
and last night i realized that these stories
this story
is something i'm going to end.

Things
end.

Ended on my terms before Time's turn.

the next time the wind blows these old pages open
--these poured upon and poured upon pages, yellowed wrinkled tear stained and everything that's
home--


I am slamming the fucking cover
shut.