Weight Shift

The weight is gone from my right palm,

a ninety-day anchor finally loose.

The ending wasn't a sudden balm,

just a tightened knot, a final noose.

The spine let go with a dry, sharp snap,

yellow glue flaked off on my thumb.

The story is over, a folded map,

leaving the rest of my fingers numb.

A coffee ring bleeds through the ink

where 'The End' is buried in brown.

I stand by the kitchen sink

and put the empty paper down.