Life Is A Book, And We're Its Pages.

You once told me
That life was a book
And we're its pages.

"We are shrouded in suspense
And mystery,
Accompanied by unpredictable
Events."

I sometimes wonder if you said these words
As if to insinuate the doubt
Of us you had in store.
Maybe you knew all along
That these smiles would fade
And become dust under our shoes.

Laughter echoes in my mind,
Crashing down in thunderous frameworks
Of soft guilt.
I bite my tongue against the noise
Of your hollow promises that
Still chime melodically in my heart.

We all have our story to tell,
And I feed this line to myself each time,
To remind the guilt
It wasn't my fault.

Maybe we feel through our breaths,
Because each breath still feels like
A hundred pounds of pain.
Or maybe that's silly.
Maybe I'm weak and trying to
Avoid the fact it was me.

I lost you once.
And that was all it took
To lose you forever.

I wasn't your book.
I was a chapter.