The End of the Sentence
Poetry and Prose by Britt Wolfe
Grief arrives like grammar—
a sudden punctuation you didn’t see coming.
One day the story is still unfolding,
and then, without warning,
a full stop.
Definite.
Unforgiving.
Final.
The air changes first.
The world keeps its syntax,
but the meaning disappears.
Even silence sounds like something missing.
I tried to write past it,
but the page refused to listen.
Every sentence dissolved
into the space where your name used to fit.
Time kept turning pages,
but I could only manage
brief, unsteady scrawls—
a fragment here,
a breath there—
none of them enough.
The days became margins.
The years, a long ellipsis
that trails off into nothing I can finish.
They say grief softens.
Maybe it does.
But softness isn’t comfort—
it’s erosion.
It’s learning to live with the hollow
where the echo still answers.
Even now,
when I reach for language,
I find only the outline of what was.
The story ended,
but my heart never got the message.
So I keep writing,
hoping one day
the ink will remember
how to make sense of a full stop.
But it never does.
It just spreads—
quietly, stubbornly—
across the page
where you should still be.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe
