You don’t owe me words, not one.
I don’t owe you silence — we’re done.
What we built was raw, not neat,
but it stood on truth beneath our feet.
Until truth slipped out between the seams,
and care got small inside its schemes.
You called it human, a passing mistake,
I called it the line you chose to break.
It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t fame —
it was the loss, that now is shame.
Respect — that quiet, steady light
that keeps a flame alive at night —
you dimmed it down to something thin,
and I just watched as the dark came in.
I’m not angry; I’ve burned that fuel.
Anger’s just a tethered tool.
Now I’m clear, not kind, not cruel —
just empty space where hope once ruled.
I’ll keep the good — the laugh, the tone,
the ways we made the unknown home.
But memories fade like seaside stone —
they smooth, they stay, they’re not my own.
So here’s the truth: no hate, no plea,
no ghost of what you meant to me.
Just peace, release, you were not the one.
At last I can say, that I am done.