It does not come with thunder,
no choir of angels tearing the sky—
only the hush of worn boots by the door,
the coat no longer needed,
the mirror no longer consulted.
My breath is still mine,
but it wanders—
like an old dog who no longer waits for command
but curls into the sun without apology.
I have loved enough.
I have wept until salt carved valleys in my sleep.
Lovers have come,
some stayed long enough to plant flowers in my chest,
others left fingerprints in the dust of my ribs.
I carry them all.
They bloom and rot in the same breath.
Now I listen more than speak.
The birds do not ask for permission to sing,
nor do the leaves regret the fall.
I envy them.
Each morning now feels like a farewell
I’m too polite to announce.
I sip coffee slowly,
as if the cup were made of hours.
I stare at clouds
and remember names I once cried out,
and the silence that answered.
No trumpet will summon me,
no stone will carry my story.
But in some child’s laughter,
in a stranger’s passing kindness,
a line of my soul might remain,
anonymous but alive.
And when I go—
I hope it is like a candle giving in to the dark:
without struggle,
without regret,
having burned with quiet purpose
until the wick was done.
Broken Author 