It was already gone

It’s funny to remember something so fondly that wasn’t even there at the end.

As if you’re glossing over the last few pages of a book because you want to say you finished it,

no matter how the pages are important to the story.

The end wasn’t good.  At the end there wasn’t anything there.

It was already gone.

But I keep remembering it fondly, the end.

I remember it as if I messed it up with the big bang of idiocy.

That if I hadn’t done that everything would have been fine and we would be where we always were.

It wouldn’t have.  It would have slowly devolved into something similar as to what it is now.

Not exactly, of course, but that’s just branches on the tree.

The ending in my mind isn’t what it was.

The ending was merely a bump.

It didn’t really end and wouldn’t have if I didn’t fuck it up.

No matter how much it was already over,

I can’t stop thinking I messed it up for good.