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So here goes, |
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One last letter now. |
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One last attempt to make sense. |
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Who have I been writing to? |
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I'm not sure anymore. |
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What have |
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I been trying to accomplish? |
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It's a mystery, |
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I guess. Self-made secrecy. |
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Things get cloudy and now all these stories and |
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The struggle as an undercurrent, both get blurry by the minute both get blurrier. |
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So, which voice is this then that |
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I've been writing in? |
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Is it my own or his? |
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Has there ever been a difference between them at all? |
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I don't know |
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I don't know. |
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One last desperate plea. |
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One last verse to sing. |
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One last laugh track to accompany the comedy. |
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Have I been losing it completely? |
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Losing sanity? |
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Or has it been fabricated, fashioned by the worst of me? |
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I know I knocked the table over because |
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I watched the jar break and |
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I've been trying to repair it every single stupid day |
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But won't the cracks still show no matter how well it's assembled can |
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I ever just decide to let it die and let you go? |
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All my motives and every single narrative below reflects that moment when it broke and will |
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I never let it go |
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No matter what? |
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Now I am throwing all the shards away, discarding every fragment, and fumbling uncertain towards a |
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Curtain call that no one wants to happen, that no ones going to clap for at all, but that still has to be. |
