Is it after the last sentence, the silent hum after the last punctuation mark.

Is days later when you find it’s words still clinging to your skin like streaks of paint

Is it when you wash off the memory? How it made you feel and whether it made you weep circling the drain with the rest of the dirty bath water.

Does a poem ever end? Or simply exist here in between us, outside of us, because of us. Living in the breath of lovers and the Lilly cheek of the moon.

Maybe it lives on, a transient infinity, always looking for a home, a place to rest.