After the Last Word

The time of writing ends,and the time of waiting begins.

Rereading, correcting, dismantlingwhat you thought was complete.

The characters still look at you,asking to be understood, explored, defended.Some speak too much, others remain silent:it is your task to restore balance,to rewrite the chapters that do not hold,to invent new ones to fill the gapsyou did not know you had created.

The cover is born and dies a thousand times.No image seems worthy,no colour close enoughto the life you have poured into those pages.

And yet, even now, she is there, beside you.Watching you struggle with forms and titles,reminding you that perfection is not needed —only truth.

Meanwhile, time passes,a year, sometimes even two.

At last comes the day when the book breathes on its own.You hold it in your hands and it hardly feels real.Now you can show it, let it live among glances and wordsthat are no longer yours alone.

And yet, inside you, something is already beyond:another story has already begun to knock,half-formed phrases weaving through your thoughts,newborn characters crowding your mind.

There is no end, only passages.Every book is a bridge that leads you to the next,every closure a beginning in disguise.

And you keep walking,towards the next book waiting to be born.

Roberto Salvo