The darling revisited our past pages:
“You said such nice things in the beginning.”
“You weaved sweet and savory.”
“You wrote like each word was our first.”
Being a determined storyteller, I played the part between the page:
“It’s not me, it’s you.”
“You don’t complete me.”
“Your death is for the best.”
The darling mourned for our lost pages:
“But you said you loved me?”
“Why did you create me?”
“What about our happily ever after?”
Being a storyteller of faith, I remained open to the unknown:
“Yes, we shared something special.”
“And it’s possible that someday, you may be reborn.”
“But today, your pages must be torn.”
Then: