We will never be a story,
Because stories get told.

And I'm locking up it all up:
Our memories,
Our futures,
Our existence,
All of them at once,
in the silence of my heart,
Like a canvas in a frame;
In a museum for no one
So none of the story can escape.

And you're letting it all out:
Our memories,
Our futures,
Our existence,
All of them in little bits,
Like a gas escaping a container,
In the presence of no one;
Little bits of a whole until there is nothing left to say.

So we will go along,
With our silent lives,
Me:
Telling many stories,
You:
Experiencing many tales,
Both:
But never flipping the pages of the book of us.
Never to ourselves.
Never to others.

So the words will be written,
In my heart,
In your air.
There are phrases of us
Everywhere
Yet
Nowhere
Like the oxygen we breathe.
We will become fiction
Never to reach a pair of lips.

And we will never be a story.
Because neither of us will ever tell.