Terminal Logic
There is a hollow space where the "almost" used to live.
You have turned our gravity into a vacuum,
believing that if you cannot breathe here,
no one should.
I am standing on the other side of a door
you locked from the inside,
listening to you dress up your desertion
and call it a form of kindness.
But silence is a blunt tool;
you are performing an amputation
and calling it a cure.
You attempt to sever the "could’ve beens" at the root,
and expect me not to bleed
from the same incision.
You have made yourself a phantom
to avoid becoming a person who stays.
You have traded the ache of wanting
for the gray safety of the void.
It is a tragedy of math:
The equation of your life has no room for a variable like me.
So you solve for zero.
You are not allowed to be more,
so you have chosen to be nothing.