What I love about this chapter of my life is that I am here to write it.

So many storied lives go unpublished.
Short ones are the most unwritten–part of what makes them so tragic:

There is an inherent injustice to a tale that never makes it past the first sentence, never lives as a fully realized premise.

Yet, here I am to even write that. What an existence!
I don’t need it to rhyme, though that’s always nice.
I don’t get to know the whole plot line, but I do choose my own adventures.

In this chapter of my life, I know that I can hide
or reveal myself in–or is it with?–these words.

All that really matters is that I do sit and commit
To writing it–this chapter, that is–
For I’ll never truly know if it’s the last one.

But the last thing I love about this part of my narrative
is that I’m finally sure the present chapter is always the best one.

Until tomorrow, that is.