Abandoned words.

Life still remains a unpublished novel. A story unread, with pages torn, and stained words. Beauty, fate, passion, these words I write now smearing off the lines in search of a more promising existence. There is no end, no middle, just a small opening and a faded period where the ink dried out. The ending now a fugitive in search of the missing name next to the I love yous. A accident is the only punctuation found in these lines. The novel of life's broken condoms, the words unable to afford an abortion. This story was not on life's guest list, printed on uninvited paper. Now this story lives as a rough draft swallowed into literature's junk mail. I would write lines through poems, into novels, across magazines and back to tell our story. As I again fail your perfect soul, dreams of us must now live as eraser shavings brushed into the past.