Raconte-moi une histoire (Tell me a story)
Skip the beginning and don’t try to work out the end,
Just the middle.
It really is the best part.

You remember how it went:
Finding what you should have had,
Wondering why you took what you didn’t want,
and hating how you lived in a heart for two years too long,
Twice, as a matter of fact,
but half as wrong.

You said,
“Pain is pretty because it means growth.”
But you aren’t a tree, so please don’t use that expression.
You are more like sap; sticky like syrup,
Stretching as you flow down,
Becoming thinner, flowing faster.

You’re afraid.
You’ve become a paradox of both slow and swift,
And you’re starting to see that the middle is becoming an end,
And all this time you’ve been carrying everything with you.

I can see you tiptoeing around the thought as you walk home in the cold,
shivering mostly because you just didn’t wear enough clothes.
You justify forgetfulness with, “We all become naked souls, anyway.”

And you know that if you cut across Elm, then Walnut and North,
You might slip into the endless snow,
where you will fall slowly and continuously into the norm.
Step lightly; you’re dancing on the edge of the masses.

So,
Raconte-moi une histoire (Tell me a story)
One that has no beginning or end,
Just a middle.
It really is the best part.