My love and my darling, you are the epitome of silence for you left so gently. You’ve fathomed not the loudest screams from the very trace of your absence. But I heard it: the ultimate stillness of loathing from someone who once held my being. Your heart is my grave—of which I never wish to be buried, for it mastered the art of forgetting. Like a house that once held warmth, now I stand at the door with a key that no longer fits. This is what it truly means to rot alive— to die carrying the pulse of memory, to decay with teeth that still ache, to breathe in the coffin you nailed for me. “No, I do not miss you– not in that length; never.”