A Story was Written on My Heart

The epilogue was filled with hints of rope, friendship and connection.

The words within called to me, and my interest was piqued,

I wanted to know more.

Those first few chapters had some minor adventures,

a great deal of intimacy building,

and my heart swelled with the love of deep friendship just as my face pinkened

with the blush of flirtation and attraction.

Some pages were easy to turn. Those parts of the story were familiar

I was comfortable as those parts unfolded; the friendship grew.

Some pages were painful. There were villians and foes.

Yet still those pages were filled with support, mutual affection, respect.

A few pages were a struggle. The story left me confused.

They challenged my idea of who I am, my labels exploded.

Leaving me uncertain. Excited, but a little scared.

Those pages included growth.

The next chapters were like most stories,

filled with day to day normalcy, challenges, joys.

Except this story was mine, and each word was felt deeply.

My heart was filled with the words of this story.

Some stories are writing only on our skin,

To be felt in the moment, but not taken into ourselves.

Some are written in our guts, held there tightly,

with small parts being released at a time,

Letting us heal slowly and safely.

Stories like this, when written on our hearts,

Those we feel forever, remember always.

They impact us profoundly, become part of us.

They leave us forever changed.

When I noticed that the story seemed to be winding down

I panicked.

I wasn't ready for this story to end.

I refused to read any new pages,

instead rereading the old, clinging.

I was so sad, so stubborn.

I clung.

I was not the only one writing the story

My stubborn refusal to move forward

It made no difference.

Words kept being written, on my heart.

I wept.

I don't know if this story has ended.

Or if this was just book one of four,

or maybe just a very dramatic chapter.

I just do not know.

All I know is that my heart holds this story,

My thoughts keep turning to it,

re-reading it like the cherished book it is.

Feeling the shock of the absence of new pages,

the pain of loss.

No villains appeared in those last pages.

No drama happened between the characters.

Yet I feel the hurt, as if there was a villain.

I feel angry, as if I was hurt.

I feel shamed, as if I am the villain.

With nothing to point at, no one to blame.

This story stopped, here.