Don’t call it a breakup;
call it a truce that isn’t holding.
Those aren’t words of regret I hear, they’re just more lies I’m done decoding.
That isn’t an exit, it’s just a racing sprint for the far horizon
and that’s not a farewell letter
when it’s just recycled print with added poison.
That’s not a smile - at best, it's just a scar that isn’t healing; but we’re no longer humans here,
we’re just faded facsimiles of being.
But this is the real you –
with none of that shit that came before.
And I’m watching you fake being here with one eye on the door.
This isn’t conversation, it's just binary code without translation
where your mimicry of sorrow showcases artless imitation.
And this is not happening - though I’m almost certain that I’m wrong,
blind to the landscape;
I’ve treaded water way too long.
Those aren’t tears you’re shedding; they’re just flotsam of relief at an ending
that feels more like my inhumane defeat
but this isn’t a game we’re playing when it’s clearly something I can’t win.
And those are clichés, dear – “it’s not you, it’s me” - and of course,
I am not him.
This isn’t anger, it's just a simple listing of the facts.
I won’t be begging you to stay here
and you're not bothering to ask.
So that’s not guilt you say you’re feeling so much as a mannerism stole -
but this is my heart broken
and a truce that cannot hold.