A late-night text arrives—
“Hey… how are you?”
Translation: I’m bored. Let me rummage through your peace.
Cute.
But no.
I’m not a thrift store for expired lovers,
not a clearance rack for old flames
who couldn’t keep up when I was fire.
I’ve graduated.
The diploma is framed.
The chapter is closed.
And no, there will be no reunion tour.
I am not in the business of resurrection.
The dead can stay where they are—
quiet, resting,
without dragging me back to the graveyard
of recycled conversations.
My silence is my crown.
My “no response” is poetry.
It is the kindest spell I cast:
letting you talk to the echo
instead of me.
Because once the fire has cooled to ash,
I will not inhale the smoke again.
I’ve got clearer skies to breathe,
higher altitudes to claim.
So keep your “what’s new?”
I am.
And that’s the only update
You’ll never receive–
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