I hate the end of a story.

The final line of a poem.

Or that last piece of popsicle that always falls off the stick.

There is such a sadness to being no more.

Maybe that’s why we can’t let go.

Even when it is long past over.

We wait as long as we can.

Forever is such a long time.

And letting go means the start of forever.

We look away like we didn’t notice.

We hide.

We lie.

We tell ourselves it isn’t today.

And make believe it’s still yesterday.

Knowing all along there is nothing we can do.

But watch helplessly as it slips and falls away in slow motion.

Like that last piece of popsicle we never seem to get to.