The further people slip into our past, the more they become characters in a book we once read. We build a narrative around them, remembering those words, that look, discarding the random parts that no longer hold meaning.
Could I have written you, in idle moments? Are you the print on my pages, the changeless black and white that I chose? I read, from time to time, and know it is only a story.
Maybe someday I shall get around to crafting a happy ending.
Stephen Brooke ©2017