The Last Breath of a Story

The heft of it, gone.

The last word absorbed,

not by my eyes alone,

but by the late hour, the lamp's soft burn.

Then the white space,

the stiff, rough paper

with its faint indentations

from the tale on the other side.

I closed the cover, slow,

as if not to startle

the silence that fell, absolute.

A weight lifted,

or a new one settled in.

This room, suddenly empty

of a voice I'd let live here for months.

Just the sound of my own breath,

and the quiet dust settling.