The title does half the work before the first line arrives. Alpha and omega are the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet, and akchiis sets an infinity sign between them, as if a beginning and an ending could be joined in a loop. The opening lines make the same promise, "beginnings without / an end", and the poem then spends the rest of its length taking it back: "it will always come to / an end." That contradiction drives the whole piece. The subject is a first love that has finished, and the central idea is that the ending of one relationship is not the ending of the story. The beloved was an alpha, never the omega: "my story / shall not end with you."
The poem is addressed to that former love, and it knows the address is hopeless: "you will never read this / but if you ever do". It is an unsent letter, which makes the listener partly the speaker. Listen to the grammar of assurance. "My heart *will* sew itself up", "i *will* never forget you", "i *will* always remember", "these memories *will* remain." Nearly every promise is in the future tense, which is how someone talks when they are persuading themselves as much as informing anyone else. The healing is announced before it has happened.
The images come from handwork and books, and they connect more tightly than they first seem to. The heart is mended like torn cloth, and the line break between "itself" and "up" makes the stitch visible. Then the pen takes over: "the pages continue to fill," and the "tear stained pages / will not deny" the speaker's earlier openness. By the end the relationship has become a volume, "shelved aside, dusted" and kept "close to my heart." The poem treats love as something written, and so as something that can be reread, put away, and followed by new chapters. The final verb, "forge", moves from the soft craft of sewing to the hard craft of metalwork. Mending is no longer enough. The speaker is making something new.
The form is free verse with no rhyme, in lines so short they often end on small, hesitant words ("a blur of", "first", "my naive"). The breaks do real work. "Colour" sits alone on its line, a single smear of brightness standing in for a whole youthful encounter. "First / loves never last" leaves "first" dangling for a beat before the proverb falls. That proverb is introduced with "as the saying goes", a borrowed and slightly weary phrase, and the poem answers it by changing the measure: "what matters are / the loves you treasure after." Ending the line on "after" points the poem forward, away from the loss. The lowercase "i" throughout keeps the voice small and private. The syntax also loosens late on. "As i will always remember" never completes its thought before the next clause arrives, as though feeling has outrun grammar.
The most telling choice is the ending. After the full stop at "close to my heart," the poem adds one more fragment: "as i choose to forge on." It begins in lowercase with a conjunction, so it reads as an afterthought, a sentence that refuses to be finished. That fits the opening promise of beginnings without an end, and it gives the poem's one active verb, *choose*, the last word. Everything before it, such as the heart that "will sew itself" and the memories that "will remain", happens almost passively. Moving on is the only thing the speaker does deliberately.
There is also an honest tension in how the speaker sees their younger self. "Naive" and "youthful ignorance" are harsh words, yet they surround the phrase "arms outstretched in open / glory", which gives that openness a kind of grandeur. The speaker is embarrassed by the innocence and still proud of it. Nothing here is bitter, and no one is blamed. The poem declines both revenge and nostalgia and offers a third response: keep the memory, close the book gently, and go on writing. Its significance lies in that quiet insistence that closure is a decision the speaker makes, not something the other person grants.