Longing. Hope. It is for nothing.
No purpose. No reason.
Pointless.
Everybody knows.
Heck, even he knows.
I know that he knows.
I think he's figured out too,
that I know that he does.
It wasn't meant to be like this,
but it is too late now,
and I know what I feel,
what I want, long for, hope for,
desire.
It will not come to anything,
of that I am almost certain.
And even if there were
but a glimmer of hope,
one tiny sparkle;
it cannot come to anything.
I will not let it.
For the start of something always means
the end of something else.
And I don't want that.
The end.
I don't want it.
I want this to be
the story that never ends,
the book where the last page is missing,
the broken record that goes forever
on and on and on.
Finality is death.
Despair. Loss.
Loneliness.
Shattered dreams.
Destruction. Hollowness.
Emptiness. Darkness.
Then comes wistfulness.
Desperation.
Memories.
Tears. Smiles. Laughter.
More tears.
Longing.
Hope.
But it is for nothing.
