If this was a book, I would guess the end
before it came
I would know the villains from the heroes
—Judging from mustachios with a penchant for being twirled
—Judging from gleaming armor and soulful eyes
I wouldn't have to wonder at the meaning
or fight for it
I could say, 'I knew that would happen'
Chekhov's gun would be used every time
Everything would be impossibly simple and neat
all the loose ends would be tied in pretty bows
all the questions answered with trite wisdom
And I wouldn't be left,
wondering
at the end
I would simply fade
to the white emptiness
of an unwritten page