The Quiet After By Mo Mahon

 

As you leave,  

I sit in silence.  

My eyelids either shut  

or caught, staring, stuck.  

I wonder when it became too much—  

When was my fight not strong enough?  

Compiling your things,  

I feel no empathy,  

just sorrows and self-pity.  

I realize that without you,  

without your things,  

My mind and home are clean.  

The ego thing,  

it’s left along with your ring.  

Now you're nothing,  

just a voice continuing to fade,  

while my bed stays perfectly made.  

Your moldy feeling, no longer there to linger,  

no more lint, no late nights on your computer.  

I won’t keep waiting, or pretending, or shaming.  

It’s like, once I came to realize who you were,  

my entire understanding of life shifted—  

my faith and stability  

completely shattered.  

You were much too young,  

as I am too,  

but unlike me, you were lying,  

and nothing was true.  

It’s been hard to forgive the thoughts of you,  

trumped by betrayal and hate.  

I should be thanking you—  

for it’s so hard to believe that love was what I used to make.  

I’m only saddened when it gets really late,  

when my thoughts drift away from my head  

and seek refuge within my heart instead.  

As words pour out of me onto the page,  

my voice can’t comprehend how they were even made.  

Nov 4th, 2024