too much, too late

it is late, again.
work will find me weary.
yet, there is so much.
the final reading,
the final book,
the final,
the leaving.

it's okay.
really.
actually,
it is ecstatic, in a sense.
the ending.
i keep touching my lips.
like there are more words, or a promise, or
a kiss or
a bruise.

there was a triumph
of a sort, and much
to write. but here, now,
the grass fragrant in the
sun, the damp fogging the mirror.

this is how it looks right now.