Nightgale Closing
You stand at the doorway of your own story,
one hand on the closing cover of your heart,
feeling the old sorrows turn to dust between the pages.
You do not slam it shut.
You let it fall gently, like dusk on a tired field,
breathing out every name that ever burned you.
In the pause after that long breath,
the nightgale sings—not of your wounds, but of the sky
that opens when you finally put the book down.