I awoke this morning
thinking about loves
I have known and
books I have read.
They are the same
– but different.
Each a self-contained
story with a beginning,
a middle, and an end.
Some stories long.
Some stories short.
Each with a plot that
plays out in my mind.
Each with a character
central to the story.
Always unique.
Always heroic.
Always memorable.
As I browse among
the leather spines
I recall this story
and then another.
I can feel the joy
and pain, and love.
I feel the sorrow of an
ending, the excitement
of beginning anew.
I see the face and
taste the lips of each
character in each story
as I relive the moments
we met and we parted.
As I finger the blank pages
of the unnamed book
that contains our unwritten
story, it occurs to me that
a perfect life ends
before the story ends
and that a perfect story
is never-ending.