The coming of an end always leaves you

with a falling heart, even the desired end

 after which you assumed all the delights

of your deprived life would rush back to you,

sweep you of your everyday-wake-up-and-read-eat-sleep

routine.You are leaving behind something of yourself,

and this isn't the first time nor do you think this will be the last,

the places you have left behind, the little rooms, the shelf of 

overflowing books,the beads spilling out of your drawer,

 tablets competing with your clock for space in your bedside table, 

the waking up, the putting to sleep, you know that with each end

 you are letting go or being let go or both, hands that were wrapped 

around you won't catch you when you fall, you get on the plane

 like you always do, and you can't help feeling empty

 because some things were getting mended, and being let off 

such misery can be overwhelming, you have always wanted

 this end, counted the days to this end,

 but with it you are losing something you don't quite know.