rereadable you

I can't change the book, 
or put it down. 
No matter how many times 
through, immersed 
in such moments, hope 
grown invincible, page 
by page. 

No matter how many times 
to the same end inexorably
we come, and always came, 
and always would come. Again 

and again. 

You'd think with foreshadows
dogging each path as we dart 
in memory, winning and beating 
odds all the way, same as us, 
same as us always - you'd think 

I would have or gain a sense 
of what was always coming. It
never comes, because if I'm honest
- I had that sense first time through. 

I do have a sense I am honest. And you 
are more honest still, every each time 
through - since we always were. 

Eyes accelerate, pulse overrates 
the stimulus again as I near and reach 
and grasp the end. The End. Same as. 

Each time

I put the book down, lay 
myself aside and I say 
quite sure: it can't 
end like this. 

It can't end like this. 

And I reach for the book
once more.