Every time I suffer a loss
I return to the same fire
the same pyre of wood
the swaying of curtains
like heartbeats
on the computer monitor
by a hospital bed
followed by a straight line
(that's how the story has been)

then came the ashes and the bones
with the memories of helium balloons
that you bought me
and the book we found
that didn't have a beginning or the end
(empty pages like riddles)
just the middle existed
(as if the ending was mine to write)

that's how reality is
we remember the middle
and forget the beginnings and the ends
The dots connect
but the story can't be told
(It is lived)

I don't know
how I got here
or how I will leave
(from this middle)
but I can see the story repeat
like a clockwork
like I'm meant to play the same role
until it tires out
the eyes that see me

It is the need to be accepted
if only someone could learn my story
and still love me

"But there is no end", he said
And I had no answers
for the defects I carried
out of the bookstore
'pretending to be a storyteller'

Is it humility,
or is it musings of a broken mind,
or is the flaw in the reader?
~M