No Writer, No

Where do the borders between
your fiction and my reality
meet, end, collide?

I'm not a character,
and this? Not a book you can
label, and chapter, and mark.
If my arms are pages, do you
expect me, truly, to carry the
burden of your bookmark?

What we had is not something
you can return to, when you please.
But I? I am not something you can
simply shut away, imprisoned by your words
and the stack of pages you already
heaped against me.