Full Stop

He would end each day with a full stop.

Eighteenth day of reading.

The story had reached a pinnacle.

Today it felt different

perhaps the nearing end.

The shrill of vocal cords,

longing in his voice,

the temper of the story held tight.

Sweat beaded on her temple.

The water in the tub

as still as she was.

She forgot he was the reader.

He ceased to exist.

Pages simply spoke themselves.

Then he turned

into her eyes.

Last words read:

"Could have been."

Sigh.