Here I am. Pick me up. Then, release me. Hold me, again, in arms, as you would to birth the sunrise. Of life given to life, I wish to be renewed. I wish to be mourned, as this tale towards my end shall leave certain pages marked.
Of dots upon what I see to be empty lines. Which of these meanings shall be edited, though they could be the one to review a final chapter? A proofreader to the final twist, towards a climax that perhaps ends in disappointment. A mark upon my empty page. A final vow. A lack of recollection to how I ended. Was my story to your liking? Did you think it through?
Here I was, to be picked up, to be mourned. To be the classic in your mind that can be retold. A trove of wisdom for the next year, within the future’s infinite days.
Swinging between your eyes. Hypnotic in your mind. A cold reverie, though with warmth to, at last, be embedded. For a flame will flicker, with eternity to its dance. Pretend to be me, though you are not. Act out the lines, the dialogue between us, as those words had echoed in your skull. In the read of me, within you, you can still find me around.
Your place in my mind will not be there. A frozen vestige, to hug the cold earth, with blankness swarming about. With one dropped hand, written upon the palm the savored warmth, you do release me. I was once there, though now not. I was once there in the belonging of your realm. It is the time of when I am not, when you are most aware.