After the Story
Once, the story ended with love.
Music played.
Rain fell softly.
Two people stood together
while the world agreed
they had been chosen.
The curtain closed.
Morning was not included.
But morning always comes.
There are dishes in the sink.
Bread gone stale on the counter.
The body waking slowly
to the work of continuing.
The towers dissolve first.
Then the music.
What remains
is the room itself.
I thought love meant rescue.
Someone arriving
with authority over the past.
But crowns repair nothing.
They glitter.
Then they are set aside.
The real work begins later.
Not passion—
that burns quickly.
Something quieter.
Two people
standing in the same room
after the story has ended.
Speaking honestly.
Sometimes not speaking at all.
The girl who swept the ashes
never vanished.
She stayed where she had always been—
in the smoke,
in the patient work
no one applauds.
Endurance is not dramatic.
It looks like ordinary life.
A cup of tea
cooling between two hands.
A bruise acknowledged
without explanation.
The mirror does not lie.
It shows the face
without prophecy.
No wand appears.
No voice descends from the ceiling.
Still something happens.
A hand lifts.
A door opens.
The world continues.
Not happily ever after—
but here.
And sometimes
here is enough.
