As you slip into my past, you become
a character in a book, someone I read
about, long ago. I have built
a narrative around you, 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
I chose? I read, from time to time,
and know it is only a story, and that
perhaps some day I shall get
around to crafting a happy ending.
Stephen Brooke ©2018
I first wrote a version of this last year as a sort of vignette or even prose poem. This may or may not be the final form (or something close to it).