(what I imagine it feels like to be) done

The last kiss shared on screen before they begin to roll the credits. The cast, hands held, bowing together before the curtains swoosh shut — leathery curtains so thick that you couldn't pry through all that cloth to reach them, even though you really want to. The last page before you close your favourite book — torn at the left corner from the times you've flipped it over, and over. You clutch at the bind until your knuckles turn white. You've eaten breakfast but the emptiness hangs in the pit of your stomach like the most hollow of caves. The cadence at the end of a symphony, the full stop at the end of a sentence. The deafening silence at the end of an applause, and slamming of the door after an argument with your mother. Doing dishes at the end of a satisfying meal, and cleaning up your house after the wackiest of parties. Aching, crying — until your tear ducts dry, until the muscles on your sides begin to hurt, until you know that this is it — you are done.