I stare at it.
The last thing that was said in a script
torn in half-
ending at a time where the folded
paper fell end-less-ly.
The scenes wrote themselves
interactions, development,
romantic – entanglement
down the middle
breaking ties with visions of a big screen debut-
down for the count
stout and a pint
words of salvage
picked back up
tape and elbow grease
and work.
The script is worth it-
never seen a work of art
this real and authentic
with connection that you wouldn’t
understand unless you stood under
the sun questioning
why.
What’s going on?
nothing right now-
silence and absence
questioning why
in an abandon warehouse watching the stars hoping for a flicker of communication.
balance is the key-
the text on the fortune cookie
a scale in one and a blade in another
nothing right now-
only to repair the same story
with the ending it deserves.
