the unread

what happened was,
was this.
a life comes
in.
a life is lived.
death occurs.
but it's the in between
that
seems important,
not the start or
the finish.
though most
never find out what that
is.
sure, we
pass each other
on the street and say
hello,
or goodbye,
or say how nice or cold
it might
be, but that's all we
have time
for.
we have our story
to be written,
then left, eternally,
to be unread.