On my nightstand sits a tealeaf diary of names and addresses, each heart above the “i” or “j”

tucked into a shirtsleeve. Ripples stain the pages yellow with crinkling surety, crackled and warm

and indiscreet, and brain melts away like sunflower petals nestled between the fingers of a

laughing little girl. I swing between will-we, won’t-we branches and sigh haphazardly with a

longing in my teeth, sniffle in leaves and sneeze out sticks. I know someday I will fold down the

tealeaf corner to the very last page, no more to be written.

names-scratched-through-to 

the next page

and sunlight      peeking through the leaves

onto two blushing youths, completely unaware of their surroundings.

The dogmark signifies the end, when the chorus croaks their last note and goes home and Prince

Escalus tells all just how horrible of a job you’ve done. They say to hold out for the epilogue! But

shoelaces tend to stay untied regardless, you and the laceration on your cheek kisses

infection.         t

            r

    i

        p

Maybe enough rumors will fester / and crawl their way into your typewriter. 

Force the urge down and crease it.

Sequels never fare as well.