Hey short story!

I know this, you are a sweeping force. Not a familiar feeling in my hands. You are this pen and this paper taken out in the middle of a bar so I can quickly get it all down before I forget. You are a short story. Ending too soon and with no real wrap-up. And to you, perhaps I am a minor character. Whats wrong about it anyway, as long its memorable and entertaining... Do you think I am a little short story too?

My short story is about a young lady, shall just called it a lady, just because it sounds classy, unconsciously passing her early twenties, who wasn’t ready to read everything that was handed to her, everything she bought from miles of those books in a dusty, old used library. Everything she unknowingly, naively checked out of the library. Like the author of a short story, you are more fascinated by the way I feel about you, than you are interested in treasuring my feelings. When it comes to an end, we are, after all, just a short story. A page. A paragraph. A typed word. We meander about, going nowhere.

Can I have a novel instead a story? But novels are long. Novels are complex. Novels are a long-term commitment. 

So instead, I picked you up. 

You became my short story, and we are as yet unpublished.. sweet in memory