It Arrives.
Unannounced, without bells or clocks,
only the faint sound of dust
learning to settle on the untouched.
The end doesn’t roar—it drips,
a drop unsure whether it weeps or sings
on the edges of a canvas that forgot its signature.
There’s a copper taste in the air,
as if days rusted away
in the breath of an afternoon that takes its leave
without leaving.
All that once was
still remains,
but slightly blurred,
like a word spoken without a mouth
in someone else’s dream.
The chairs keep the shape of the absent,
the clocks turn inward,
letters fold themselves inside drawers
as if they too knew they should no longer speak.
And there’s no drama,
just a long sigh no one exhales,
a nostalgia that belongs to no one
and yet weighs
as if the universe stored it
in every corner that was once the center.
Then you understand: it’s not what dies that ends,
but what can no longer be repeated
in any language.
And the end,
with moss on its feet,
sits with you
to look at the exact place where everything
was.
