I spit your name from the marrow of ache, Where silence once sang me to sleep. You wear an obsession like silk on rot — A crown less thing that crawls too deep. You write me in corners I’ve long since burned, Trace footsteps where no light dares tread. I closed the book, but still you turn Each page with fingers of the dead. You bloom in shadows I no longer tend, A wilted psalm in a garden of scars. Don’t speak of love — you twist its end And call the cage a map to the stars. I walked through the fire and left you ash, Yet here you howl in the breath I breathe. Let this be the final slash — I am not yours. I leave. I leave.