The last hours of the last day.
The pages turn and the story folds.

                            ~~~

I was told, once, that the mark
of a fine writer, of a finer story,
is how you wish for it to go on
when you reach the end.

The lights have been dimmed.
The sheets have been lowered.
Your head presses pillows,
fighting the inevitable
silence.

                          ~~~

Sometimes you can see the ending
before it’s ever begun.  Sometimes
the story is worth the risk
of those darker hours
of the night,
anyway.

                            ~~~

One of your first lines read,
“Don’t write the story.”  We knew
even then.  You knew.  I knew
I would try to follow your rules;
I did.  That one.  For the most part.

The paragraph closed, with this:
“Don’t fall in love.”  I never
saw you coming.  I never
stood a chance.

                           ~~~

Some settings recall more
than description, more than a place
you’ve been.  Some settings aren’t
just like — some settings are —
home.

                           ~~~

Sometimes you can see the ending
before it’s begun.  Sometimes
it really is the end.

                            ~~~

But first, you have to turn the page.
First, the entire story turns, folds
into the last hours of the last day.