The Ellipsis . . .

teases amid the white,

leaving us to guess

what's been omitted,

cherry-

picking its many biases,

filtering out the

disparaging in every

book and movie review.

See it there, at the start

of a neutered sentence,

as though the initially

penned words

were never scribed,

not critical enough to share,

like lifting a stylus

above the grooves,

lowering it precisely

into the record

after the opening verse

has been sung,

singling out the chorus

as if that alone

were more than enough.

I was recently told

I was doing it wrong,

failing to leave a space

between this trinity

of dots. It takes up

too much room, I replied,

looks peculiar on the page.

Do not leave me

wondering what these lines

conceivably said,

in the heat

of an angry moment,

within the quote

of a love confessed,

this trail that leaves

the ending to conjecture,

a search for the

discarded

we were never supposed to know.

Andreas Gripp

RF Image