letting go
The Ink That Remains
I close the book, its spine sighs shut,
the whisper of a thousand nights drawn in.
A chapter folds like hands in prayer,
but not all endings are so clean.
The lantern dims. The room forgets.
Yet on my fingers, dusk still clings,
not with fire, but with a bruise,
of words that bled with shaken wings.
I turned the page; it turned me back,
a mirror’s glance, a hollow swell.
The tale is done, but silence keeps,
what ink refuses to quell.
The parchment sleeps, but I remain
marked by the shadows love once wore.
We name it "past", but past is ink,
and ink remembers so much more.
So let the book stay closed awhile,
beneath the dust, beneath the rain.
The lines may fade, but not the ache,
of what was written in hurried vein.
Blurred Edges
I'm incredibly new to poetry so keep that in mind while you read 
This poem comes out of a memory from not so long ago. The last line is adapted from a part of a song called 'Basic Space' by The xx (I recommend you listen), and I had this line in mind while writing as it really resonated with me (and essentially inspired the whole thing).