XIII. The Final Verse

Part of a poetry novella

I found your pages in the quiet dust,
Folded beneath the broken floor,
Your words still hum, though lined with rust,
Each poem left an open door.

I read them in the evening glow,
I traced the stains along each line,
And felt the hush you used to know
Now pressing gently into mine.

Your chair still waits, the lamp still sways,
The cup still stains the table round,
I move as you once shaped the days,
And make no claim to what I’ve found.

But here, within this timeless space,
Your verses end, your voice worn thin.
So I have shaped, with borrowed grace,
The line you never let begin.

Goodbye.