All of the endings were openings
but you pretend you’ve seen it all before,
careful not to give away too much of your
dreams and hopes and
expectations, your wafer-thin worries and
fears. Still the yearning inside you
grows toward the closest source of light:
home when you find it
in people, whatever silly thing brings
joy, every handwritten note you’ve ever
kept, and—like clockwork—
love. You try to assign
meaning without anyone
noticing. But what if all of the endings were
openings, and you didn’t need to
pretend after all? What if in the
quiet of some evenings, the
room safe & still, what if in the changing of the
seasons you sensed it was
time to change, too? Shed skin to reveal a soft
underbelly, learned not to flinch at your own
vulnerability. Left the story ajar for
who you could be (marking your spot with an
X, letting it breathe) when a strange new
year rolls around, fiery sparks
zooming up to paint the sky before they come
• crashing gleefully down.
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