I dread turning the page.
I dread it because there's no way of knowing how far away
you might be from the thank-yous, the recommendations, and finally,
the back cover.
I dread it because in this particularly dreary story,
the pages rise aflame as you pass them, leave ashes
in your wake, with nothing but faded memories to flip back to.
Nothing but worthless remains of things once beautiful,
things that once held meaning. I dread it because inevitably
we are nearing a climax, and I am unsure if I will know
when it happens, unsure if I will recognize the falling action,
recognize the coming of the end.
If you haven't grasped my metaphor yet, I fear what the future holds,
and what beautiful things I may leave behind as I move forward.
I fear the unknown and undetermined, fear what has yet to be revealed.
They say the past is only the future with the lights on;
I am afraid of the dark.