It’s not clear who or what’s left,

the pages torn out of this particular mystery novel,

right before the end .

We are fading to black quicker than I thought, and the sound isn’t quite as clear now.

I am afraid I wont get it right; all the static and the stories I cant get out the right way,

all the spare parts,

all sounding the same, lately.

We found it right before we finished, at dawn, we did it.

We found the answer.

I am plural.

before the sun came up,

many spaces apart……

I am plural.

none of those stories though,

before any more good ideas, before any answers.

I am poetic.

I can type without looking, at certain points,

even when its dark and

and I came up with the end without looking because it sounded similar,

I came up with something,

before I could see anything else in front of me,

or by reading ahead to the last page, by reading anything.

so there’s that ,

there’s always that