We Were a Poem with No Ending

<p>This book is not a sequence of poems nor a novel nor a memoir. It is the residue of all three.</p><p>I began writing <em>We Were a Poem with No Ending</em> not as a project but as a desperate attempt to make sense of echoes that would not quieten. The words arrived uninvited-sometimes as whispers sometimes as bruises pressed onto the page. I did not intend to publish them; I intended only to survive them.</p><p>Yet survival has a way of asking for witness. What follows are fragments meditations and confessions-an atlas of tenderness and ruin. The pieces resist conclusion because love grief and memory rarely oblige us with neat closures.</p><p>If these pages leave you unsettled it is because they were written in the unsettled hours. If they console you it is only because wounds when named begin to breathe.</p><p>This book is unfinished by design. After all we were a poem with no ending.</p>