Finality (a poem)

begins with paper
ends with it too.
Quite surprising
how perfunctory
a decade can be
summarized, detailed,
logged, filed.

The first page
two names.
A joining.
A future.
How crisp.

The end page
same names.
No future.
How crumpled.

Documents don’t contain
the screams
the accusations
the sleepless nights
but she hears them
as she reads:

I don’t love you anymore.
You don’t love me.
You need me
like a child needs a parent.
You exhaust me.
You hurt me.
Though you’re still here
you left a long time ago.
I can’t do this anymore.
I don’t love you anymore.

Don’t say that
you fucking liar.
I know you love me.
I know you love me.
I know you love me.
I know you do.
I know you do.
I know you do.
I know you…
I know you…
I know you…
I know…
I know…
I know…

Every mend, un-mended.
Every stride, gone backward.
Every touch, rebuffed.
Every kind word, unheard.

He came back.

Why this.
Why that.
How this.
How that.
What about.
What about.
When this.
When that.

She shrugged.
Confused gaze
trained on him
unsure why she
fought so hard,
so long.

A bottomless
cup can be emptied.

Ending pages
within sight
on the table.
Yes, she thinks
with finality.

Let it be done.

Though, none of this
exists within those
officious pages.
A good thing too.
It’d make for a
horrid read.

Finality (a poem), by
Christina Schmidt, MA

I can’t say that, I’m not lost and at fault /
I can’t say that, I don’t love the light and the dark /
I can’t say that, I don’t know that I am alive
“Say It Right” Nelly Furtado