Strictly Professional Interaction (by @kork75)

I am not asking for forgiveness.
I line up words like madmen do,
or bar poets—
the kind who talk to themselves
because silence, over time, makes more noise.

We spoke in half-tones,
between halved truths and held breaths.
Each painting her own canvas:
you with fear,
me with naivete.

I looked at you—yes—
with those statue eyes,
black, glossy, beautiful.
Cold as the bill after lunch.

You struck clean,
no appeal.
It wasn't anger—it was strategy.
You just needed a reason to leave.

Then, as if one sentence could fix it:
"Don't talk to me again."
Right after:
"From today, I'm not leaving anymore."
You stayed—not to understand—
but out of obligation.

When I said "Here I am,"
you left my hand hanging.
A real friend would have listened.
You chose the summary trial.

You turned me into an unwanted echo,
a shadow on a path you wanted cleared.
Your goodbye carried that polite poison
of someone who turns loyalty into accusation.
But I don't defend myself.
Not anymore.

I saw you leave,
slamming the door.
I made mistakes, yes.
But I didn't betray.
And if you remember, you know that.

You—architect of surgical silences—
built bridges just to cross them,
then blew them up with the timer ticking.
I—distracted traveler—
missed the "Emergency Exit" sign.

Now we're two islands with radios off.
We exchange signals in corporate code.
No storm.
No calm.
No poetry.

Still, I saw your heart.
With its secret gardens.
But it was just a passage.
Not a harbor.

You wore kindness on command.
I searched for light.
You offered reflections.
And for a moment, I believed.

If the season of true words ever returns,
maybe we'll understand each other.
Slowly.
Without urgency.

Until then: good morning, good evening.
Respect and distance.
I keep writing.
You—if you want—tell me your silences.
But know this: I won't bend.
Not anymore.

Greetings by @kork75👋