There is a quiet that comes after ruin
not absence, but correction
something precise settling into place

I allowed myself to mistake
insistence for meaning
to mistake your presence for weight
to mistake repetition for truth

Strange, in retrospect
how little was required
to keep me occupied

Clarity is efficient cruelty
it does not argue
it simply removes

What remains is unembellished
no softened lines
no need for translation

I see myself now
as I was before the distortion
and as I should have remained

If there is regret
it is not for what ended

Only that I allowed it to begin
without asking what it offered

And that I learned, too late,
how easily I mistook
something temporary
for something that mattered

Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 2nd of Severin, in the year 18 AC.