We never did find our storybook ending,
because we never really were the characters
we wrote about, though we pored ourselves
We were not the proud owners
of a shiny new Happily Ever After.
There was no closure,
even after the book was closed,
no final scene, no curtain call.
There was no kissing in the rain.
There was no steady backround crescendo.
The earth kept moving,
and we keep breathing.
Time didn't stop,
although many times I wished it would have.
I didn't write this world I walk around in.
Happy endings don't happen
when writers weild words like weapons.