The last page of the book is a lie; always has been.
It is infinite. I am not the author, but merely the recorder.
There is no bravery; no will and no presence of heart.
I am the mechanics of reliving. I am the ear on a chest
and the difference between steady throb and silence.
I am forever the twenty minutes passing in an instant
when left alone with the body. I am the blanket carelessly
thrown away; once laid over the corpse, kept as a last resort
of closeness. I am crippling predisposals. I am a mistake.
Tear the title from the spine, erase the author from the cover,
and let run the ink. I threw my keys down into a sewer drain.
To think, I was an adventurer. My boots are dusty and the book is
an erroneous mess of disregarded endeavors, worn with warp and water.
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