To share one moment is simple.
It's like a folded page where we both stop
and say "Oh yeah, we'll return here later --
We'll remember this turned over landmark
for when we want to remember where it all began."
but, more often than not, it's when it all stopped
because we never went back, not once,
to turn over to the next page,
to read through the plot,
and get to know our characters,
the subtext, the metaphors,
the running themes.
What's left is a creased corner;
an imprint of a memory.
Even if when we try to flatten it out,
the line proves stubborn and indignant.
So then with eyes forward,
we are sentenced to the next sentence.
Then comes another moment,
another other --
another permanent crease left by the wayside.
And so it goes, till the whole story seems marked,
by forgotten friends and faces without names.
We could leave it there
and that would be okay.
It would be fine by me,
to have disconnected pages
attached to a binding spine,
and I could call that my story.
Why not? It's mine.
But I am told of a myth where lies some truth in it,
that one day there'll be another other,
who is unlike any other I've ever known,
who leaves no creases on some page,
and gladly reads cover to cover.