we are not the end of a movie

when my plane took off into the air,

there was no camera behind me,

no fade to black, no credits rolling

up to tell us the parts we played

in each other lives. we were

only left with the drifting delirium

you had lured me into, creating

apocryphal manuscripts out of

broken typewriter keys; typesetting

emergencies, like the night you

huddled against me. remember?

how your body quaked from the

cold as we watched ghosts dance

around our window from you humming

melancholic love songs, whispering

dreams between the notes.

the next morning we had our

coffee in silence, shadows

intertwining as we shook off

the break of character we exposed

each other too. lost in the sacrifice

we could not make, but we were

ready to return to anarchy the same night.

we were like children, lost in the

idea of attachments to each other,

afraid of how easy we would break.

our fragile arms held each others

names when we were together, letters

twisting between our fingers as we

moved further into the snow. the cold

warming us back from our addictions.

ashamed as i am, it took years for

me to realize that we are not the

end of a movie, so i took my typewriter

out into lawn and set it on fire, frustrated

with knowing it could only type your name—-

each letter engraved on slivers of paper.

this poem is an apology letter to the both of us,

for how far i allowed us to go; for forgetting

that some parts of ourselves need to

remain buried. and though i have

forgotten how you look, my skin

still trembles when i remember your taste.