love's end

I try to change the endings sometimes
defiantly, with might-have-beens.
Aside, though, I whisper to the playwright,
as he holds his pen in hand, and say
what makes an end?
For this is all continuous
excepting death, and even death
is what you say to yourself concerning death,
and your own heart rests or goes dark
with the weight of the conversation
you have with yourself in the graveyard.
So show me your ending
and I will show you the one who
looked down as he stood there
and reasoned for silence in his heart.
I walk in the cemetery now,
and to me it seems that the silences
are pauses
the conductor holds his hands still
and lets the music
fit into the people
before beginning the symphony again.