...

I don't want you to be

the father, son and Holy Ghost.

But everyday you try

a small Savior. 

And I'm searching for the title

engraved,

in somebody else's plan.

How can you be somebody else's 

when the else doesn't know the else she needs?

Does she need a friend,

a lover,

a fighter,

a blood,

a son?

Calculating the tears,

Questioning your role-

Were you on the losing side,

this time?

Blanket sighs,

shoes thrown,

she can't even answer.

You are what you are.

Maybe that's enough.

You're the million and

the one.

You're the it she can't explain,

You're the mind she loses,

You're the glass that breaks,

You're the question,

And the pause.

You're the language of her pain

When will you be the period?

A stop.

A sign.

An end to a chapter

in her achy, breaky life.

Or are you the question mark?

A mind.

A cage she fights.

A thought she can't

hold onto.

The doubts.

The gray.

The matter.

Then,

Lips turn,

Mouth shakes,

Toothy face.

Stops.

Air in,

And out.

Life is a fucking ellipses...

period.