Only Endings

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Once, I believed in conclusions,
like the last page of a book, its spine
closing with a soft sigh,
the scent of old ink settling in the air.

In the weight of a final moment,
like the heavy stillness after rain—
water sinking into cracked asphalt,
wind retreating into silence.

That at the end of every road
there would be a gate, rusted brass,
a threshold where feet hesitate,
where dust gathers in small, quiet drifts.

A certainty. But time has a way
of undoing things, unraveling threads
from a sweater worn thin,
the cold creeping through its loosened weave.

Of stretching the last word into an ellipsis,
like a train whistle fading beyond the bend,
the rails humming long after
the weight of departure is gone.

Of turning what we call an end
into yet another beginning—
the wick relit by the wind,
a tide pulling back only to return.

It has come to seem that
there is no perfect ending.
Only hands unthreading themselves
from clasped fingers,
a door left slightly ajar.

No single line that severs
past from present, no punctuation
sharp enough to stop
the ache of continuation.

Indeed, there are infinite endings—
some slow and unnoticed,
like a candle burning down to a whisper,
wax pooling in delicate folds.

Others abrupt,
like a glass slipping from the counter,
midair before the inevitable shatter,
the sound already forming
in the hollow of the room.

Or perhaps, once one begins,
there are only endings.

The moment the first note is played,
the song is already fading,
vibrations unraveling
in the hush between beats.

The moment love takes root,
the unraveling begins—
a vine creeping up the wall,
one tendril breaking away
as another latches on.

Every hello is laced with goodbye;
a child's hand waving from the window,
the blur of a car disappearing
around the curve of the road.

Every first breath,
a countdown to the last—
lungs expanding like sails,
collapsing into the tide of sleep.

And so we wander through life,
collecting farewells,
like ticket stubs from long-forgotten films,
mistaking them for milestones,
mistaking motion
for permanence.

But maybe this is not tragedy.
Maybe this is mercy.
Maybe the beauty is in
the endlessness—

in the way things fold into each other,
the way autumn leaves fall
into the waiting arms of the earth,
the way the tide never stops
reaching for the shore
even as it pulls away.

Maybe the only way to live
is to embrace the endings,
not as losses, but as
gentle reminders—

That nothing ever truly leaves.
That everything
is always beginning.