Aren’t all the good stories
always like this?
Passed from one mouth to another
with one or two things melting into the tongues
of those who preach the sanctified word.
Forever lost,
altered history.

We’re seventy years worth of good stories
and for seventy years, many have tried to tell them.

But somehow in all the madness
of good people and bad people
of right and wrong
they forgot to tell the story of how much I love you.

As if the heavy slope of my shoulders
doesn’t write a hundred paragraphs.
As if the way I look at you
doesn’t write the singular ending.

You are my epilogue,
my prologue,
and every chapter that exists in between.

Everybody, sit down.

I have a story to tell.

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