Little black globe of authority, finality, you are the world’s freckle, dot that hard-smacks me at the end of sentences I’m not even sure I should have written. Bullet for the broken-hearted, fleck of fear, speck that burns when I try of flick it off the page, stuck solemn as a street sign, full stop my fingers obey, eyes honor. Such power something so small, seemingly insignificant but never scarce. How is it you get to dictate all our beginnings, endings, so smug in potent squalor, ubiquitous beyond all reason. If I leave you out, skip you, ignore you, you only call attention through your absence, haunting as you disappear. You speak the unspeakable braille, send messages that pierce and shatter, little dagger, eyedropper, final stitch in the fabric of the word.