I wrote a story once, with a happy ending and two people who saw past each other into time, and knew through the curves of existence where the ends met again at a white formica table in a lonely bar, eating cold-tasting sandwiches broken, bruised, but breathing still and enduring I said once I lived for a moment now that moment has come and gone What do I live for now? when I remember only a week ago you held my hand and I said I loved you Maybe I didn’t mean it maybe I’ll regret it, in a few years when I see how happy you’ve become when I meet your wife and shake her hand and pat your son’s head and wrap your daughter in my arms I wrote a story once, about the two of us but it didn’t have an ending The chapter may be finished, but the end is not in sight there are no words for feelings that I don’t understand No words for emptiness. The story I wrote, Lies half-finished in a pile at the bottom of my drawer Am I there as well hiding somewhere amongst the hieroglyphs? Does the hurt go too deep for healing tears? I will wait instead   too tired to finish the story I spend my time wisely planning a future without you I’ve buried it deep, this story I wrote about two people. I’m waiting at the table for inspiration before going on to the next chapter I’m waiting at that table Perhaps it’s for the best if this story is never finished and those two people never leave that table but forever wander the stars of their imaginations holding each other up feeding on a faith and peacefully going about their business.