Forgotten Serendipity

The ending of a book is always sad;

even the fairytales that conclude

with a shimmering promise:

‘Happily ever after’.

One always lingers at the last line

as if at the door of a room

with many fond memories

-- one last time,

before closing the door forever.

And there is that strange bittersweet feeling

that chokes one up.

Perhaps it’s the knowledge

that nevermore can the story

tell itself to you
like this.

Surely one can read it over and over again?

But nevermore will each page

seem so perfectly like an oyster

prised open to discover thoughts

of a pristine pearly sheen.

Later, when one flips through the same book,

(no, not the same)
like a box of childhood trinkets,
it is cherished still, yes,

but dusty with the vagueness of an ache

as the mind tries to reach

into the past

--to remember the serendipity

of discovering each knick-knack

-- but in vain.

The ending of a book is always sad.