The Book is Closed

Oh the Judas kiss and the one of the cloth, and unclothed breasts and putting them beside me, and telling all of the story, when the recipient stands alone and just alone. So you meditate on the dream, an impossible dream that wants to stay just where it is. It has no intention of going anywhere. And on Sunday mornings, you may check the time for the service, but the service is not alive to you anymore. You are past that place. And you wonder about the weight increase and feelings within the memory of the heart, of another, and you remember that you have forgotten to ask the crucial questions, and she enters the mind periodically, and sometimes there is acceptance and sometimes you just wonder why. And this particular past has escaped to find its rest in an interpersonal history, and the story is over, and the book is closed.