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<sub>[Source](https://www.pexels.com/es-es/foto/rojo-amor-arte-corazon-15280614/)</sub>

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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.


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