My life is not a book
and I am not an author
Fate and Chance write our stories
without happy-ever-afters

If the world spun around me, my secrets, my rash, traitorous actions,
would spell out tragedy,
not daftness— oh, I can write the turning point
but I cannot claim the rapture

In my dreams the story weaves
an end of love and laughter
but I renounce my hubris, my proud mistake
of trying to fake a pattern

I’ve realized I am fiddling
with friends who matter more than matter
not simply dreamt-up actors.

This is no fairy tale.
The sweat and blood, the puffy eyelids
and choking tears
taut muscles and strong, gentle hands
soft smiles and brief eternal hugs

They are real.
and now, they are missing.