Fiction

Slightly, the setting sun

shifts the shaft of light

down the wall. The dust,

illuminated. They float, equilibrate, paying no respect

to memento mori. And I,

I am fiction.

The pages have long yellowed. You caress

my spine. Gently, your fingers slide

across the embellishment, distant as

seeing eyes that

study Braille. I am now fragile –

an artifact, resigned to

your careful curation, your cautious

hands.

I was once the grand wooden door you knocked,

after the drawbridge fell. You gazed, with wonder,
at the silver knight. Running, you escaped

the labyrinth, and embraced

the magnolias, the field where you

were safe.

You were a muse to me, like I was

to you. Magic was when

you thumbed my pages, when we huddled beneath

your fort of sheets. I shared countless night skies

with you. Without thought,

my space was saved

wherever you went.

Yet I was not made to measure the miles,

before my own shadows

swallowed me whole. It was quick,

painless,

sobering, while your world grew

cruel,

illusory. I withdraw

into my corner, second hallway

from the left. Because

I am fiction, and because

I never belonged

where you were.

(It would be wonderful if anyone understood what this really meant, but I don't expect anyone to, judging from the amateurish writing. Still learning though.)