Finality.

You will always be; something private. Like a whispered wish tumbling about the open sky among the dandelion seeds.

I'll stamp you out in heavy-handed periods at the end of each sentence I write. Like black flecks of snow falling delicately over everything I attempt before I crumple it up and toss it on the floor.

I've reclaimed ownership of my smile. You are no longer responsible for it.

Though I think I'll keep you close for a while. In towering, haphazardly stacked folders swept away from daily thought. I'll file our purest moments in places where I'll stumble across them unexpectedly. I'll label that folder, "Guilty Pleasures".

I will never find comfort in things crisp and new.

I'll leave us like a messy room behind a closed door. A masterpiece in its simplicity. A disaster in its own right. Maybe someday I will rewrite me out of it.

You will be for me, something wistful and cherished. The sudden escape of air as a heavy book is closed. Unnoticeable, yet overwhelmingly significant.