by Selena Santos18 Oct 2017
Our soft hands are reaching for the last page.
We long to skip ahead,
to be done with it already, but
the words keep eluding us.
The words run faster than our spry legs ever could,
and we keep tripping over each other, our silhouettes
at war with the sunset.
I, the young soothsayer, speak in riddles,
in tongues and proverbs.
I tell lies, and I tell them terribly,
but no one wants to correct me.
They see me as an enigma waiting to be solved.
They go home with headaches.
Why don't they understand
that I don't want to be understood?
We don’t say what we mean, and we'll never know
if we never meet.
"You were my friend," I murmur, the words burning my tongue.
"Why did I feel so lonely around you?"
The conversation turns to the weather.
Someone says, "I don't remember how we used to fit,"
And I agree.
It was ending, you see.
The story was writhing on the table,
tearing itself to shreds,
and the words were floating,
falling in my hair.