Maybe this whole book was given
For starting over.
The same chapter written twice.
Or three times.
Or four.
First in pencil for erasing,
But that weakened the page
And it became sensitive.
So in pen. Crossed out and scarred
Printed and indented into every line.
Infinite directions multiplied by infinite interpretations.
They met, but why?
They wrote, unanswered.
Once or twice. But sometimes called and answered.
Yearned for the alternate ending
Of which reality lacks.
This book is made for starting over and dwelling
In chapters already written
But lacking romantic perfection.