it's Monday, i'm unwriting you -

each paragraph from flesh and syllables
each exchange of words and breath and moments
momentos
each scribed.

you and i scrawled so beautifully together - prose worth publishing.

oh, i was caught in it -- couldn't put your book down
couldn't stop at the end of ACT II.
couldn't put the breaks on couldn't
unbind your leather from my ink
couldn't unread those promises and precarious arguments
over bagels and eggs and whether carbs are really ruining America.

it all seems so trivial now.
a bad novel.
a worse novella.
a horrid poem.
but it wasn't all James Patterson.

i listen to your voice inside my head as i
read your last wordslastriteslastthankyouslaslgoodbyeslastreconigitions of how
it's neither of our fault and yet
the story ended without clear closure or character development.

i hear your tone even though we're not speaking
as i read through your last message of, "i care and wonder how you are."
i close my eyes and hear the hitch in your breath again, in those dark nights where i filled your plotlines; connecting the gaps in each one of your stories.

I filled it all in.

impregnated with the climax that this could be the one that binds all my pages together.

But it's Monday, and I'm unwriting you.
Putting down our trilogy,
to read the paper instead.

08/11/2015

Posted on 08/11/2015
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe