the book of you.

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Every Day I Write the Book
Chapters 37-38 + Epilogue.

Under the guise of forgiveness,
we walked,
married to the steps that brought us here.
A song stuck on repeat,
a needle stuck in the groove.
Revolutionary relations
turning circles 'round the sun,
we spun,
out of control;
landed on empty,
wrong way on a one way track.
Pick up the pieces,
run the clock back;
the game was over
before it started.

You are the albatross
choking my voice.
I am lost amongst a sea of words,
broken verse and bleeding heart,
I have traded poetry in
for cliche.
Molded words to fit around your face,
pressed my pen up against dead lines
and found only you
hanging from their end.

But where do I begin?


Consider this an epilogue foretold
to our never-ending story.
The prophecy of goodbye
scribed in sheets
that once held you close.

The pen grows tired
of playing martyr to your cause;
words weighed down
with the pieces of your crumbling world.
Ransom my thoughts,
I'll gladly pay to reclaim them.

This is where it all falls apart.
The quiet climax that was long overdue.

Every day I write the book of you,
but what is left
when I've written you off?

The End.

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