Unending

There are too many blank pages
in the novel I have fallen into.
So I fill them
with smeared pen curls and
uncrossed Ts
and read on.

I’m a character
who craves the contact of
long unguarded
arms and hands
on my misguided frame.
It’s not pitiful.
But it is predetermined.

The last page is filled
with ellipses
and small print
that advises the reader
to finish more stories
or buy bigger erasers.

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