The Violins Are Playing

The violins are playing.
Low and slow—
the kind of song
you only hear
at endings.

We could stay.
We could pretend
this isn't the last note,
that there’s still
music left between us.

I could reach again,
like I always do—
arms open,
voice soft,
offering peace
to a silence that never earned it.

But your hands
have never been empty.
They hide things.
Behind your back,
beneath your words,
in the pauses you leave
like tripwires.

And I—
I’m tired of watching the wire.

I’m tired of the dance
where you take and I give
and we call it a rhythm
instead of what it is:
a slow bleed.

You don’t want me here.
Not really.
Not in the way
that counts.

You want the version of me
that doesn’t look too closely.
That doesn’t name
the way your love retracts
like a blade.

But I see now.
The smoke,
the sleight of hand,
the way you dress harm
in something resembling affection.

And I’ve laid my last offering
at the altar of your comfort.

So let’s not drag this
past the final bow.
Let’s not rewrite
what we both know ends here.

The violins are playing.
And I’ve already let go.

Say whatever you need to.
The music
won’t stop for it.

This isn’t rage.
This isn’t vengeance.
It’s the sorrow
of finally knowing
you never wanted
to hold what I gave you
with care.

So take aim, if you must.
I won’t be here to feel it.

I’m walking out
to the sound
of strings unraveling.

And I won’t
be looking back.