Don’t say you love me
while your footsteps keep their own appointment.
Don’t say you miss me
if the room learned your shape and survived.
Don’t practice crying
when you’ve never held the after-silence of losing.
Don’t hand me promises
printed on erasable paper.
Don’t place your warmth in my palms
if it’s rented by the hour.
You change like bus schedules.
Announced, delayed, justified.
Meanwhile my love goes underground,
deeper, quieter, building tunnels you’ll never name.
Do not call this strength.
It’s compliance: a face that passes inspection.
Do not call this peace.
It’s the noise turned low enough to work in.
I won’t translate the bruise of staying.
You won’t feel the gravity of it.
You will leave correctly.
I will remain.
Unfinished, intact, and still somehow falling
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