Saturday, January 14, 2017



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

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