immediately after i finish a book i have to start another. 

 

rinse and repeat. always moving. don’t get too attached. 

 

i worry that if i don’t pick up another book immediately i may never do so again

i fear i’ll become forever lost in the chasm 

grasping for characters who’s stories have ended and unable to move onto the next

if i didn’t fear the nothingness i could learn more from the stories that reside in my hands in my head in my heart

but instead i rush forwards to avoid the longing for what is over

 

 

sometimes i feel the same way about people

as i feel one relationship begin to lull i will do anything i can to detach myself and search for the next someone else

someone else to read cover to cover and then discard 

someone else who isn’t them maybe unless i squint

 

rinse and repeat. always moving. don’t get too attached. 

 

if i could stay still in a state of disparagement id have the chance to look at the people i am ready to throw away

to see them as entire stories with pages i will never get to  be a part of 

a story i will never get to finish reading

never to give myself the chance to go back before the cover closes 

to be content in waiting for our stories to align 

 

but i can’t. 

 

i cut and chop and block until i am a ghost

because i have to be the mover

because i cannot allow someone to finish reading me and decide they will move on and close me and put me on a shelf and never think of me again

 

so i move instead 

even when it tears me up inside

 

rinse and repeat. always moving. don’t get too attached. 

 

i love you and i am leaving you because i love you and leaving you will hurt but not as much as being left by you will hurt and i love you

 

onto the next story. the next book. the next person. the next pain.