The Last Poem

The morning came not with sunrise,

but with the sound of Elias's breath catching like torn fabric.

Celeste sat beside him, her hands wrapped around his.

His skin was cool, but not yet cold.

His eyes, still open, searched the ceiling like it held unfinished verses.

A nurse came in quietly, adjusted the oxygen mask,

then left without a word. They all knew.

The body was unraveling. The soul was still writing.

Elias turned his head toward Celeste with effort,

his lips twitching beneath the mask.

"Pen," he mouthed.

She didn't hesitate.

From her coat, she drew his notebook—the leather worn soft by use—

and his favorite pen, trembling now in her own hands.

She placed them in his lap.

His fingers, frail and thin, curled around the pen.

Every movement was a battle.

But he wrote.

Painfully, haltingly,

with ink that scrawled like branches in wind,

he gave birth to his last offering.

When he finished, he let the pen fall.

He closed his eyes, as if the words had exhausted all that remained.

Celeste picked up the notebook, breath shaking.

On the final page, in a slant barely legible, it read:

"For Celeste—

Though my breath may fade,

my heart is thine.

In sea, in silence,

in every line."

Her tears fell before she could finish the words aloud.

But she read them anyway—voice raw, breaking, full of every heartbeat they had shared.

Elias smiled.

That was enough.

This was the triumph: not fame, nor Paris,

but a final poem held in the hands of the woman he loved.

She leaned forward, kissing his brow.

"I will keep it alive," she whispered.

"Every word. Every piece of you."

And he drifted into sleep,

the poem still between them,

the candle at his bedside flickering like a soul easing into dusk.