Our stories have a limit,
you said, soft, watching skies.
I waited, drawing words from you
with silence.
Follow any story long enough
and it's just a tragedy.
"Like heroes?" I ask, though
I am never sure I speak.
When our stories end, prayers begin.
We plead for exemption, from death.
I would have a story rather
than live forever, you added.
I listened to your voice, felt
the silence fill the emptiness
as if that was all we ever do.
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