My love for you is like the end of a book, not
there yet but close, oh so closing
in, so much no please don't
going on - in the narrowing
thickness, each whispery flip
and flick, hope is giving way
to enjoyment or at least, trying to
as it becomes frantically clearer
what the author is doing to you - why
run out of pages like this! So much
further, you wish to be taken - eyes
intent on every foreshadow, crying out against
resolution, willing into being possibilities,
complications, cliffhangers,
sequels
In the movie version we will play ourselves, but
which of us wrote this damn thing?
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