I'm holding onto a book that doesn't belong to me.
I've read its pages a thousand times but failed to see
The words on the page no longer meant for me.

Its title was hope, the author, my fantasy mind.
The main character never caused any harm.
His words were generous, loving, funny, and kind.
I fell for his wit, awkwardness, passion, and charm.

He dripped words painting stories for us to share.
Fantasies voiced, marveled, woven in sinful prose.
Days, months, years, learning to love and to care.
My eyes saw the man; my mind I thought, he knows.

Like most secret cherished complicated things
It came to an end, but at the time, I did not know.
Assumptions, love, stupidity blinded my ability to see
Foolish girl, my thinking stagnant, not letting him grow.

A hole galaxy-wide opened and swallowed me.
Pain that awful not familiar devoured my sanity.
Wanting to share good and bad, was no longer to be
He took my confidence, pride, my foolish vanity.

I was not what he needed; he'd already left.
It took me a bit, some painful messages to see the clues.
Now I try and pick up the pieces that have left me bereft.
No longer trusting my judgment, I push away, afraid to lose.

Sobbing quietly to myself, I swallow shame to say goodbye.
I'll search for myself and inner peace.
I can no longer say I'm fine, smile, and repeat that lie.
Days turn to weeks, now months, but still no release.

Reading that book was always my favorite sin.
For now, I'll place it out of reach.
The time has come to heal and mend.
Love lasts, relationships don't; I know this because
now our book sits all alone on a shelf.