The Short Story

It was a short story -
it should have been longer
The first page drew her in -
impatient, she couldn't let
the story unfold naturally.

She tore through the pages.

She doesn't read short stories
no, she's the poetic type -
still, picked it up and pried it open
and she doesn't know -
should she have left it closed?

I cannot tell.

It wasn't her first short story
it might be her last -
the others were readable, vaguely enjoyable,
oh but this one flashed a lilac light around
her fevered body - and cooled her.

Still,
so still.

It was a short story
but there were pages missing.
She reads it over and over,
hoping, longing to find the whole.

Someone ripped out the last pages -
someone knows how it ends.
Perhaps it ended in pain -
perhaps they protected her.

I hold her until she is still.

The short story will always be there -
she keeps it in her special memories box.
She re-reads it daily
and she laughs and she cries.
She is glad she found it
although it hurts.

The short story is still here.

 

© Morney Wilson