The Most Sorrowful Moment

Is the most sorrowful moment the last word of the last line of the last page in that old friend whose spine is worn and pages wrinkled from your fingering, whose musty smell has become a part of you through those stolen moments reading in poor light or under covers to finish one more chapter before drifting off; one more page, not sure if you're dreaming in earnest or still drifting in those pages?

Or is it the finality of that moment you close the back cover to be slapped back into the grey, dreary mediocrity of the real world? The cold strict lines of street and stone contrast so to the brilliance of description, the vivid pictures painted, so real, but so much more than real the images that came to life while immersed within those pages.

Those pages that taste like memories, though not your own, they become your own with every word you eat up, each syllable that rolls on your tongue and plays on your lips. Each suspenseful lip biting moment, the metallic taste of your own flesh brings you back to one specific delicious line on one specific delicate page that smells of your own sweat and salty tears.

Or is that most sorrowful moment, the starkness left after a favorite book is completed, put down, and put away, hands empty with longing to feel the weight of this personal treasure and stay in it's familiar comfort forever?