We Were a Poem with No Ending

This book is not a sequence of poems, nor a novel, nor a memoir. It is the residue of all three.I began writing We Were a Poem with No Ending 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.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.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.This book is unfinished by design. After all, we were a poem with no ending.