When the Last Page Turns

When the Last Page Turns

People love conclusions – they reach for them,
like children clutching the final stitch of a story,
the soft, decisive knot that tells the tale it’s over.

We line up in quiet libraries, waiting for the bell,
for the hush that follows the final punctuation,
for the sigh that sweeps the dust from the shelf.

In the kitchen, the kettle whistles its last note,
and we sip the steam‑laden comfort,
knowing the mug will soon be empty.

In a lover’s eyes, the sunrise fades,
and we press our palms to the fading light,
hoping the night will seal the promise of dawn.

But each ending is a double‑edged sword—
the sweet relief of certainty, the ache of loss,
a heart‑shaped crack that glitters with memory.

💔

We chase the curtain’s drop, the final bow,
because the unknown is a wild, untamed sea,
and we are weary travelers yearning for shore.

Yet the sea whispers back: “Even the tide must retreat,
for without its pull, the moon would never rise.”

So we love conclusions, not for their finality,
but for the space they carve between what was and what might be—
a quiet interval where grief and hope sit together,
hand in hand, waiting for the next line to begin.