I remember the night I spilled between your binding.

I remember the way I liquified and

sank

into

the

pages

of

your

life.

I don't know if I was ink to add to your tale or water to destroy your efforts,

but I remained just the same.

I like to think that you found comfort in my placement on your parchement

or in the way my calligraphy mingled with your Times New Roman narrative.

I like to think that beginning at page 2 and ending up at page 54 meant that you wanted me to stay.

Was I a prologue, a plot, an epilogue perhaps?

Did I question your what's and who's with enough why's and when's to make me dynamic?

Did my straight lines patiently hover your dots in a way that made you anticpate our dialogue?

I wish I could say that I have all of the writing prompt answers,

but this is your story,

not mine.

If anything at all we are a mix-matched pattern of fonts appraoching an epilepsis

...

we may be out of pages, but maybe we are not.